


The Sentiment of John Watson

by SaitouLover



Series: Sentiment of John Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Doctor Heal Thyself, Gen, John is an Angry Hedgehog, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, and manipulative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2019-11-07 21:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 36,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17968175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaitouLover/pseuds/SaitouLover
Summary: John had nothing to look forward to but a never-ending parade of boring, dreary days all the same, one right after another. He wouldn't be napping for twenty minutes before dealing with an insomnia-ridden flat-mate who had access to a gun. There was nothing._______________________"So good of you to call, Johnny Boy!"The familiar voice sent ice shooting through his veins and John felt his knees give and he collapsed down onto the road, small bits of gravel and stone jabbing into his flesh. Sick fear filled his stomach and he let out a shuddery breath."No... no, you're dead.""Well apparently not, Johnny."





	1. Chapter 1

The drawer where he kept his service pistol was empty.

John stared down into it apathetically for several long minutes before anger slowly flickered to life. It licked at the back of his throat, a dark burning that begged for attention, but the soldier was too exhausted to stoke it into a proper fury. With nothing covering them, the faint scratches where the gun's nightly withdrawal scraped the wood were obvious; and John knew that Sherlock would have disapproved of them if he had been there to see. John grimaced at the stray thought and rubbed his right hand against a cheek roughly.

Sherlock had been gone - dead, John reminded himself - three months, leaving an enormous void in the doctor's life where his flat-mate's loud, obnoxious self occupied. John had found the transition back to a Sherlock-free existence nearly impossible. Everything hurt. His limp and tremors returned with a vengeance, forcing his resignation at the surgery and hospital, and he found the boredom was just as painful. Day after day passed in a gray blur as the same tiny flat and crappy job blended together. The only thing that distinguished where one day ended and another began was his nightly ritual.

But now his weapon was gone and there would be no more moments of clarity late at night when the memories and nightmares kept him awake. There wouldn't be smooth metal in his palm again or the reassuring weight of a bullet as he loaded and reloaded it into the clip. The motions had been repeated almost every night for the past three months after the first time the monotony became too much to bare and they had become comforting in their own way.

On top of that, the press and negative publicity surrounding the entire situation was suffocating. The doggedness of the numerous reporters started to crush what little life John had left out of his body. He found it difficult to leave 221B without a small mob of the leeches following him as he pushed his way towards the mart or his therapy sessions. Only darkness provided enough cover to convince him to drag hisself out of the flat. Any other time was too bright, too open, too exposed to others. Beyond that, it felt familiar slinking around at night, and it reminded him of Sherlock when John darted through alleys and hid in black corners to avoid parasitic columnists like Kitty Riley.

An ugly sneer twisted John's mouth.

That bitch had taken to following him about London as if John were about to do some news-worthy trick. She seemed to expect him to be a duller version of Sherlock and grew more frustrated every day he wouldn't prove her right. It seemed to the doctor that since there was no way she could confront Sherlock about the death of her so-called boyfriend she tried to find blame in John instead.

However, Kitty's single-minded determination to defame John seemed to turn into pity around the two-month mark. It was as if she realized how pathetic he was and changed her mind about him. John wasn't sure if he should be relieved or insulted by that but, be that as it may, John was growing irritated with the cow.

And now there was another annoyance to add to the mix. Mycroft.

The issue was how to get rid of Mycroft's prying. John doubted that Britain would return his weapon, especially because of his actions to systematically push every single person that knew Sherlock away.

It was childish and John had known he would regret it later while doing it but he couldn't spend another moment with people that thought they knew his best friend. He didn't want pity from either side of the scandal; the disbelievers that thought John Watson had been one of Sherlock's greatest cons, or his and Sherlock's closest friends that knew the truth.

  
John waited until Lestrade was on a case and Mrs. Hudson was out for the day before he packed his bags and called a taxi. He moved into a dreary bedsit, unpacking only the necessities - a few clothes, his toothbrush, his gun - before ringing his landlady. She was home by that time and cried when John told her he wasn't returning.

He hadn't bothered with Mycroft, confident the older man's curiosity died with his little brother. John's mistake. He hadn't heard from or attempted to contact the man since that last confrontation in Mycroft's office. The thought was there that, even if he did want to dial it, the number he had for the man wouldn't work.

So, since Sherlock's death, life in London for him had been calm. There were no criminals or cases waiting, nor were there creepy-stalkerish CCTV cameras following him whenever he stepped out. John could go about his business in peace.

But what business did he have now? Now that Sherlock was gone, there wasn't anything left. Everything in John's life for the past two years had revolved around and relied upon the consultant detective and his particular brand of insanity. Sherlock had provided the excitement John needed as badly as oxygen. Life without his friend was equivalent to suffocation, a slow agonizing death. Something John was growing drearily bored of.

Apparently - going by the empty desk drawer - Mycroft was bored as well.

John got up and tugged the curtain closed, fighting the urge to flip a finger at one of the various CCTVs on the street below. He scowled at the faded fabric he was still touching and moved back to the desk to snap the drawer closed with a satisfying thud. With nothing he could do to protest the breech of his privacy, John lay down on the lumpy bed and looked up at the cracked ceiling.

If Mycroft saw fit to invade John's self-imposed isolation then he was obviously keeping an eye on him. The elder Holmes most likely felt that his guilt over Sherlock's death should extend to John and John's well-being. So if Mycroft took the gun then he was most likely afraid John would actually use it. After all, John thought bitterly, allowing Sherlock's best friend to kill himself in a fit of depression was a bit not good.

What did that mean for John though? If Britain was watching him, how close was that surveillance? Was his phone bugged? His flat?

John kept his eyes on the cracked paint above him and away from the spots where cameras were most easily hidden. If Mycroft was going to interfere then John wasn't going to make things easy for him. He'd let the other man continue in his unwanted monitoring. Let him think he succeeded in preventing John's darker actions. There were ways around Britain.

The Holmes brothers tended to forget that John had a brain.

He even knew how to use it.

_____________________________________________

The next morning John got up, left the flat, and walked aimlessly through London, keeping a careful eye on the CCTV cameras along his route. He meandered down Paddington and Oxford Street, past Trafalgar Square, and finally ended at the river. He followed the boats for a mile as they floated east before he leaned against a railing and gazed at the buildings on the far side of the water.

He knew there were cameras pointed at him, three at least, and felt tired annoyance. It was clear now that Mycroft hadn't given up, though how John had missed that fact he didn't know. Mycroft may have lost Sherlock but the older man was apparently happy enough to continue invading John's privacy in memoriam of his younger sibling. All that could be done was deal with the intrusions as best he could, incorporate them into his life, or what little life he had, until John had an idea of what it was that he actually wanted.

Chilly September air rushed past him, ruffling his jacket and hair, and the doctor scrunched his face and rubbed his nose with a sleeve before starting to walk again. A boat sounded in the distance but the blaring horn soon faded into the background noise of London. Time passed, and John stopped to grab lunch at a little shop off the main stretch of road.

The table he sat at was in a back-corner, out of the window's view and away from the few other patrons inside. The seats wobbled and the tabletop had deep gouges in it but John ignored it all as he placed his order and fiddled with his water glass. There were several pressing concerns that John needed to address before there was any further movement by Mycroft and none of them were easy to circumvent.

The primary issue was that he was now without a weapon. Not only was it probably in Mycroft's possession but the fact that some faceless agent had violated John's privacy in order to steal it galled him. The pistol had been a constant companion throughout the war and had followed him home to the UK. It had survived Sherlock with him and mourned with him those long lonely nights when the reporters stabbed too deeply. The firearm wasn't needed for protection anymore but it didn't mean it was useless.

Secondly, Mycroft's surveillance. The doctor hadn't noticed any of the usual signs of being followed he was accustomed to but it had obviously been there. Anyway, John knew that the level of scrutiny he'd be under for the unforeseeable future would be increased and that he'd have very little privacy from the government's prying eye. John wouldn't be able to get another pistol while he was being watched so intently.

The last problem that occurred to John was that if Mycroft was truly concerned about John’s mental health and safety he might commit him. The doctor didn't think there was an immediate concern for that but he knew it was a possibility. There had been several bitter comments made by Sherlock at one point or another that led John to believe Mycroft had committed his baby brother due to addiction.

John had a sick feeling that if he gave any indication that he genuinely intended to kill himself, Mycroft would step in out of unwanted concern. It wouldn't even be all that hard for the government official. Ella was already worried for him, it wouldn't take much to convince her John was suicidal and needed full-time help.

Killing himself wasn't even what he was after, though the single bullet was telling now that he actually thought about it. No, he didn't want to end his life. He wanted to end the boredom. John never understood Sherlock's manic and destructive behavior until now. It felt as if wool was stuffed in his chest and head, dulling his senses. His bones ached from the frustration of inactivity, and nothing in his boring existence would take that pain away.

So what did he have left? Nothing, that's what. John had nothing to look forward to but a never-ending parade of boring, dreary days all the same, one right after another. There would be no new and exciting case where he would run around the city, fighting ninjas and assassins. He wouldn't be napping for twenty minutes before dealing with an insomnia-ridden flat-mate who had access to a gun. There was nothing.

John felt his heart drop a little lower and placed the last bit of his sandwich back onto the plate, his appetite gone with his fleetingly good mood.

________________________________________________________

  
John hadn't gotten the pills to kill himself, they were to prove a point. That if he wanted to kill himself he could, with or without Mycroft's interference.

It had been far too simple, getting the pills from Ella. An hour-long session filled with just the right words and expressions, all carefully considered and planned out, and he had her singing the praises of antidepressants. John would have felt bad about using her if he thought his visits were actually helping but they weren’t. She really was crap at her job, at least when it came to John. Still, the manipulation allowed not only a passive-aggressive move against Mycroft, it helped cut off any potential committal.

So, with a spiteful defiance towards Mycroft that Sherlock would have been proud of, John accepted Ella's 'suggestion' of chemical aide and filled the prescription one bright London afternoon.

He knew that the pills would help with the depression, which was why he was going to take them, but having them there was a subtle means of taunting. It was a way of saying "I can still do it" and made John feel better on a deeper, darker level. He felt satisfaction in one-upping Mycroft, even if the older man didn't realize it yet. After all, Mycroft couldn't justify taking John's antidepressant medication on the off-chance John decided to overdose on it. It was there to stop John from killing himself in the first place.

John returned home and placed the full bottle of possibly lethal pills on the windowsill, clear to the CCTVs, and stared at them for a while before leaving the flat. He walked to a nearby pub and got smashed, knowing that it would be the last time he'd be able to for several months. Alcohol, after all, didn't mix well with drugs.

The next night he'd cleared his desk and dumped the bottle out and counted the pills slowly. One went down easily and he scooped the rest back up, hesitating for long moments before tipping them back into their plastic container. John made a show of it for the cameras and put them away in the bottom drawer where his weapon had once been, ridges of the cap rolling against shallow scratches.

___________________________________________

The medication did its job and John began to feel a little better within a couple months. While the main reason for getting the drugs hadn't been to reverse the depression, it was still a welcomed side effect. The lethargy and dark mood that had plagued him began to lift and he felt happier for the first time since Sherlock's phone call from Bart's roof.

He passed the sixth month anniversary of his friend's death visiting with Mrs. Hudson. His ex-land lady had boxed up all of Sherlock's things and rented out the main flat to a lovely young couple. She received more rent for the property than she ever had from John and Sherlock.

"Not that I'd choose them over you or Sherlock, John dear. I would rent it back to you any day of the year, for even less than what you paid before." She patted his hand. "I just miss you. Poor Sherlock. You're all I have left."

John gave a strained smile and poured her more tea.

"Oh, but look at you," she continued. "You look so much better now."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Nothing to thank me for, dear. I'm just glad you're better. Losing Sherlock was hard on us all. He was so full of life, always dashing about."

John felt his expression falter. "Let's not talk about Sherlock, hm?"

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth. "I'm so sorry, John."

"No, it's alright. I just... I'm not really ready yet."

"I understand, dear."

They passed the mid-December afternoon in comfortable quiet, both silently remembering the consultant detective they had in common. Mrs. Hudson made them sandwiches and they ate them in front of the telly, laughing at the game show that was on. They drank tea and laughed and smiled, and it felt wonderful to John. It only dawned on him then how terribly he had missed his land lady.

_______

Two weeks later, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, John left Baker Street with a light step and small smile. He had spent the day with Mrs. Hudson celebrating and planned to return the next morning as well. John had forgotten a gift though, so he begged off in order to get her a last-minute present. An hour and £75 later, he climbed the stairs to his bed-sit and felt his good mood plummet like a lead weight when he found Mycroft in his flat.

The older man was standing in front of the closed curtains, peering through a small slit down at the street below. John stood in the doorway staring at him, hand gripping the knob with white knuckles. He stared at Mycroft until the other male glanced at him and spoke.

"Do come in, John."

John clenched his jaw at Mycroft's casual tone, as if it was Mycroft that lived there and not the army surgeon. He quickly swept his gaze around the room and noticed the drawer with his prescription, slightly ajar that morning, was firmly closed. The blatant invasion of his privacy deepened the anger that was growing in the pit of John's stomach, making him taste bitter bile at the back of his mouth.

"Get out," John growled.

Mycroft huffed gracefully and let the curtain fall back into place. As he turned to face John, the Doctor couldn't help but notice in the back of his mind that the politician's posture showed signs of strain and uncertainty. Mycroft motioned to where John still stood in the doorway.

"You really should come in. We have things to discuss."

Rage began to bubble away under the thin level of civility John was able to muster. It would be so simple to let it out, so satisfying, but the shorter man knew that wouldn't solve anything. He had been slowly leaving his anger at Sherlock and Mycroft behind, but the sudden and unwelcome appearance of the elder Holmes made John want to spit nails. He dropped the gift he had purchased inside the door and gritted his teeth.

"Out."

Mycroft waved his hand and opened his mouth, but John filled the thick space between them first.

"Fine, have it your way."

He turned and slammed the door closed, forgetting to use his cane as he jogged down the stairs at a quick pace. He ignored the muffled calls of his name as he descended and pushed the building's front door open explosively. Two men perked up in the corner of John's vision and began to walk towards him, obviously assigned to detain him if he tried to leave. The army doctor turned in the opposite direction and began to stride briskly away, weaving in and out of the moderately busy foot traffic. He pulled his coat tight around him and ducked through a doorway of a nearby restaurant, heading to the kitchen, ignoring a startled waitress' call.

The chef looked up at him and gave a startled wave. "John! What are you doing back here?"

John jerked his head at the swinging door. "Trying to dodge an utter bastard. Have you got a back door?”

The chef nodded and motioned towards a side hallway and John nodded gratefully before moving in that direction. He found it a little ways down and quickly slipped outside into the back alley when an angry commotion sounded behind him from the kitchen. He closed the door and began to jog toward the fire escape a little ways away.

John jumped and caught the bottom rung, his weight pulling the rusty ladder down so he could climb it. He reached the third floor and hastily poured himself through an unlocked window that opened into the building's main hallway just as one of the two men darted past the alley, glancing down it briefly before moving on. John breathed a sigh of relief and sank down to the floor. He sat beside the window, his back against the wall and knees pulled against his chest, and dropped his head down onto his hands.

It was only a matter of time before Mycroft located him. The man would be sure to deduce John's escape route within moments. John had to make a plan and get as far from Mycroft as possible, even if it was for only an hour or so. He needed the time to get his head on straight, his temper back under control from when he'd lost it at the other man's sudden arrival.

John stood up and patted his pants off. He looked around, mind turning over quickly, studying the interior of the building he had escaped into. The hallway was deserted so he quickly made his way down the stairs to the second floor, keeping his eyes out for any potential escape route. Music blared through a slightly ajar apartment door and John crept over to it, peering into the living space.

There was no one in sight but as he looked to the left he saw a coat rack with a long blue down coat, too large for John. He grinned and grabbed it, sliding it over his own, and snatched the brown hat that was there as well. The wool covered his hair and ears, and he pulled it lower so the brim covered as much of his face as possible. He pulled his phone from his pocket, powered it down, and hid it in a nearby artificial plant that sat in the building's hallway. He figured that Mycroft would be able to turn it on again, or even track it while still off, so it was best to leave it behind in a place that he could get to if needed.

John zipped the coat as he made it to the ground floor and slide out the front door and past a nearby undercover agent. He casually strolled down the street, turning several random corners before stopping into a busy store, one packed with customers for last minute Christmas shopping. Its restroom was just as busy. He hung the stolen coat and hat on a nearby hook before barricading himself in a free stall, waiting until several rotations of customers had come through.

After what he guessed was half an hour, John emptied his own coat pockets and reluctantly abandoned his jacket in the stall. He grabbed a different coat from the rack on his way out, leaving the blue one behind. He paid cash for a black winter beanie, exited the store directly behind a large group of shoppers and struck up a conversation with one of the tired looking men that belonged to the party. They talked animatedly until they reached the next store on the group's list, a smaller, less crowded shop. John entered with the group and kept an eye out for something he could use to further himself from Mycroft's men.

One of the shop's sole workers was a bored young man around John's height, with short hair similar to his. John grinned and sidled up to the attendant, questioning an item or two for sale and drawing the other away from the store windows and CCTVs. When they were out of camera view, John pulled out his wallet and offered a hundred pounds and stolen coat to the kid in exchange for the other's jacket. The clerk was immediately wary, but John waved a hand at the group he had come in with.

"My ex-wife's over there somewhere. I don't know how I got dragged into this, but I'm trying to get the hell out of here before she remembers I'm here. Even her new husband's about to gnaw his own arm off. A different jacket so she doesn’t recognize me leaving."

John grinned good-naturedly and soon had the sympathetic young man's ragged coat and hat. They were worn but suited John's needs perfectly as he mimicked the kid's gate and shuffled out the employee's exit into the back alley. Cold air assaulted his face and bit at his skin but John ignored it in favor of moving through the empty alley to the other side. He crossed the street and walked for a mile or so before hailing a taxi.

John ignored the driver as he slid into the warm cab and handed over the last of his money, asking that he be taken as far as that would get him. He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes, exhaustion suddenly overtaking him. He fell asleep to the gentle stops and starts of the vehicle and bustling noises of London, head lolling against the cool glass of the window.

_____

  
When John woke, he was strangely groggy and the taxi was stopped on the hard shoulder of a road with the driver gone. The air in the cab was exceedingly chilly, telling John that the vehicle had been turned off for quite some time. It was pitch black outside, making it difficult for the doctor to tell where he was. As he leaned forward to peer into the front of the automobile, John felt a light weight shift on his lap and then thump to the taxi's floor. He reached down to grab the object and felt his stomach drop when the tips of his fingers brushed over familiar markings. John fumbled with it, his digits clumsy from the cold, and the screen of his mobile lit up in the dark of the cab. His chest pounded as he looked around, trying to see anybody through the night.

John reached for the door handle and pulled on it. It twisted towards him, but the door remained closed. He sucked in a harsh breath and pulled at the handle several more times before he tried the lock. Numb fingers pressed against the little latch, and John sighed in relief as he heard the internal lock disengage. The cab door popped ajar with a quiet snick and cold air rushed in through the small crack that formed.

Gravel crunched under John's boots as he quickly climbed out of the car and swiveled around, his left hand on the taxi's roof and his right on the top of the open door as he scanned the black surroundings. He pricked up his ears and stiffened when an owl sounded in the distance.

There was very little moon light to see by but it was clear to John that he was nowhere near London. He could make out tall shapes on the other side of the road that he thought were trees, and even more behind him at the bottom of a steeply sloped hill. It was a rural road he was on, with no one in sight and most likely not within distance for miles. The cold December air ruffled John's hair and he gritted his teeth against a shiver.

The driver's keys were sitting in the ignition, their smiley face keychain winking up at him in the mobile's dim illumination. The key turned over but the car refused to start, the stereotypical whirring of a troubled engine coming from underneath the bonnet. He tried several more times before giving up with a growl of frustration. He stepped away from the cab and turned in a slow circle, taking in the complete darkness around him.

John slipped his phone into a pocket and rubbed his hands together, contemplating his choices. He could wait until morning, huddling in the back seat of the car for what little warmth there could be found, or he could pick a direction and start walking. Hopefully there would be someone within a mile or two that would be able to assist him. It was eight thirty by his mobile's screen, and if he found someone reasonably soon they might be willing to give him a lift into the closest town.

Another gust of air blustered by and John cupped his hands so he could blow hot, moist air into them, hoping to bring warmth back into the numb skin.

Wait, or walk? John shifted from foot to foot, and grimaced as he felt his phone shift where it rested inside his newly acquired coat. While it wasn't anywhere near an ideal solution, if it came down to it, John could always call Mycroft. The army doctor sincerely doubted Lestrade would be able to find him, not if John couldn't provide any details to where he was. The elder Holmes should be able to pinpoint his location and would most likely send an employee for him immediately, especially if he was still annoyed with John's disappearing act earlier that day.

But John wasn't that desperate yet. He still felt a great deal of irritation at the other man's sudden reappearance, and did not want to give Mycroft the satisfaction of sending someone to collect him like a wayward child. So John rubbed his hands together and started to head in the direction the car pointed.

After walking for almost an hour and not seeing any sign of human habitation John gave in and pulled out his phone. He blindly hit the fifth number on his speed dial and waited to hear Mycroft's bored tone.

"So good of you to call, Johnny Boy!"

The familiar voice sent ice shooting through his veins and John felt his knees give and he collapsed down onto the road, small bits of gravel and stone jabbing into his flesh. Sick fear filled his stomach and he let out a shuddery breath.

"No... no, you're dead."

"Well apparently not, Johnny."

John moaned and hung up. He thumbed through his contacts, desperately searching for Mycroft's number, the one he had purposefully forgotten, and nearly sobbed when he found that it was replaced by an unfamiliar one labeled 'Jim from I.T.'.

The screen came to life with an incoming call and showed a selfie of a grinning Moriarty, wearing the royal crown and jewels. The phone vibrated repetitively until John realized it was morse code for SOS. He canceled the call, hysterically jabbing at the end button, and dialed Lestrade's number, silently praying for the other man to pick up.

"I'm sorry, but you are currently out of service range. Please try again later."

The service alert was tinny on the other end and drove John into a fit of desperation as he dialed contact after contact, getting the same message every time. After reaching the end without getting through to anyone, John dropped the mobile onto the ground beside him and cradled his head in his hands. He sat there until the phone buzzed once, a text message appearing on the screen.

'I find phone coverage horrendously unreliable, don't you? :('

John's mouth twisted, anger and growing panic numbing his brain into inaction as another text arrived.

'I don't have that issue. Don't believe me? Call and see.'

Several moments before three more came in rapid succession.

'I'll let you borrow my phone, Johnny Boy.'

'Don't be like that, Johnny. It's only getting colder out.'

'Daddy won't bite. Much. ;)'

John stood up and began walking. The phone stayed behind on the ground but John was helpless without the light it provided and so he had to backtrack and pick up the now quiet mobile. It felt far too heavy and cold in his hand - most likely an unfortunate consequence of channeling evil, he though hysterically - but its light still illuminated the road easily enough.

The criminal consultant was right though, the temperature was continuing to drop. If he didn't find shelter soon he'd freeze to death. John huffed and violently shuddered from the cold. He shoved his free hand into a pocket to warm it before switching the phone to the other hand. It was extremely uncomfortable, and John was feeling the effects of overexposure to the below freezing air.

Generally, England had bearable winters where the temperature never dropped far but this year was the worst it had been in over a decade. Snow fell far more often than normal, making a heavier winter coat definitely called for. The one he was currently wearing was not effective and John felt the icy air slip into the space between his jacket and clothes every time the wind blew. He knew he wouldn't make it much further in this state.

John stumbled again, dropping his mobile. He picked it up with a stuttering curse and shined it in a frustrated arc, futilely searching for a person or house. Trees were the only thing the light caught until metal glinted feebly in the dull glow. He stumbled forward hastily, his phone shaking in his hand, and realized it was a mailbox he'd come across.

It was silver and in good condition. The doctor felt a surge of hope and shined his phone on the ground, looking for the drive that needed to be there. Dying-light hit the gravel off-shoot, making John groan breathily in relief, his teeth chattering horribly. Gravel crunched loudly under his tripping feet, but he paid it no attention as he made his way down the long drive as quickly as possible. He turned a corner and stopped as pure, unadulterated relief washed through him.

A farmhouse stood in the distance, the structure's lower windows lit and glowing a faint white. John began to jog, feeling suddenly lighter than he had the past hour or so. His phone died half-way to the house but he didn't care. He could see the edges of the gravel now that the moonlight wasn't blocked and kept to the drive. John felt the gravel end and compacted dirt begin as he slowed to a walk, harsh gasps escaping him. He bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in cold air before straightening and shuffling to the front door.

John knocked loudly, smile dimming as no one answered. He looked around the front yard before turning back to the door, pounding harshly on it.

"Come on, come on..." he muttered.

A lamp switched on upstairs and a silhouette moved behind a closed curtain. It disappeared from view and John heard thumping moments later. He heard a shotgun cock and stepped back from the house as the door swung open.

"Who the hell are you?" the old man barked, shoving the barrel of his gun at John.

John held up his hands and tried to smile as disarmingly as he could given how frozen he was. He gestured down the drive in the direction he had come. "John Watson, my... my cab broke down a few miles from here, down a ways on the main road."

The old man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And you walked all this way?"

John nodded, hugging himself. His teeth chattered violently and made it difficult for him to get the necessary words out clearly. "The driver left, probably looking for help. I didn't see him on the road on my way here, so I don't know where he is."

"Don't you have a phone?"

"No reception," he pulled the useless object from his pocket and showed the other male. "And it died on my way up the drive. I've been using it as a flashlight. Please, can I please use your phone? I've been walking for over an hour and it's freezing out here."

John could tell the old man wanted to refuse but before he could an equally old woman came down the stairs in her nightdress, a shotgun cocked in her hands as well. She took one look at John, shivering violently and skin pale from the cold, before she glared at her husband. She nudged the man in the doorway aside and motioned for John to come in.

"Close the door, Harold. Come in young man."

She led him to the kitchen and sat him down at the table, bustling about the room with a tea kettle. Harold came in, glowering, and John noticed both owners still had their weapons ready. He approved of their caution as he rubbed his wind-chapped and tingling hands.

"May I borrow your sink? I need to warm my hands up, I've got frost-nip."

The woman nodded and turned the faucet on for him. John got up slowly and removed his jacket, rolling his sleeves up. He waited until she had moved away before shuffling over to it, gently sticking his arm under the water to test the heat. He fumbled with the hot water to try to turn it down but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. Harold's wife noticed his difficulties and reached over to help.

"Thanks."

"Of course," she smiled tiredly.

  
"I'm so very sorry about waking you both, but there hasn't been anyone in sight since I left the cab."

"We're the only family in the area that has a drive on that road. Most of the others access the next one over. Where in heaven's were you heading that you were stranded out here?" she asked curiously.

"I don't even know where I am." John admitted, embarrassed.

"Near Weeting." She had to clarify further at John's confusion. "In Norfolk."

"Oh." John looked down at his hands in the running water. "That's quite a bit a ways from where I started."

"Which was?" Harold asked, still suspicious.

"London."

"London?" the couple asked at the same time.

John nodded absentmindedly. "I needed to get away and asked the cab driver to take me as far from London as possible. Apparently he kept going until the car broke down."

The other two looked at each other for a long moment before Harold got up and went down the hall. John watched him go before turning to the woman.

"I swear I'm not a criminal, but I understand your concerns. If I could just use your phone, I'll call my friend and be out of your way."

"London's a bit far for him to come get you at this time of night." She pulled the hissing kettle off the stove without glancing at John.

"He'll probably contact the local constabular and ask someone to come get me."

"They're not that open to playing chauffeur, dear."

"Probably not, but they'd do it if a Detective Inspector asks them to."

She looked at John in surprise. "Detective Inspector?"

John nodded. "My friend, Greg Lestrade, he's a Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard."

The Kitchen lapsed into silence for several minutes until Harold returned. He leaned against the doorjamb and watched John. "They're sending a constable to check on the taxi."

"Good." John pulled his hands out from the running water and dried them off on a near-by towel. "Hopefully they'll find the driver as well."

"Dear, what was your name again?" Harold's wife asked.

"John. John Watson."

"John, dear, why don't we go call your friend, Inspector Lestrade was it?" She emphasized Lestrade's title and John saw Harold raise an eyebrow from the corner of his vision.

"Yes. Thank you very much." He followed her down the hall and cleared his throat. "I don't believe I know your name."

"Oh! How silly of me. It's Margie."

"Margie. Well thank you for your kindness."

"Anyone would have done the same."

John felt Harold's stare and doubted Margie very much.

Margie waved a hand at the landline and John smiled at her as he picked up the receiver, punching in Lestrade's number. He shifted onto his right foot and leaned against the hallway wall as it rang repeatedly. Finally, the Inspector picked up.

"Hullo?" Lestrade asked, voice rough from sleep.

"Greg?"

"John?" John heard a mattress squeak and the detective grunted before continuing in a much more alert tone. "Jesus Christ, John. Where the hell have you been? After you did an end-run, Mycroft assumed you came to me!"

John snorted. "Figures. How irritated is he?"

"Seeing as he can't find you? Bloody irritated, I'd wager."

"Well that's something at least."

"John, where are you?"

"Um, Norfolk. I can't remember... hold on."

John covered the mouthpiece and looked at Margie.

"Weeting."

"Near Weeting," John spoke into the phone.

"Why the hell are you out there?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I have no idea. I gave the rest of my money to a cab driver and asked him to take me as far as possible. Apparently he decided to visit Norfolk."

"You had that much cash on you?" The other man asked, disapproving of a positive answer.

"Of course not. I don't know why he came this far. I wasn't even expecting to get out of London."

Lestrade sighed. "Hold on. Let me get dressed and I'll call someone. They'll come and get you. I'll pick you up in a few hours. What's the address."

John handed the phone to Margie who, after verifying that Lestrade was in fact a Detective Inspector, going so far as to take his warrant number, gave Lestrade the house address. She passed the phone back to John.

"Greg?"

  
"Yeah." Lestrade was zipping his trousers. "Got it. I'll pass it onto the constables out there."

"Thanks." John sighed again. "Greg, please, please don't tell Mycroft. I don't want to deal with him right now."

Lestrade stopped moving around. "John, what's going on?"

"Please, Greg. Not right now. Later, when you pick me up, I promise."

The Inspector sighed, frustrated, but aquiesed. "Alright, but I want an answer."

"Yeah. Thanks, Greg. Be careful."

Lestrade hesitated. "Right. Just hold tight, yeah?"

"Yeah."

John ended the call and placed the receiver down onto the cradle. He turned and smiled tiredly at the couple. "He'll be sending someone round to collect me."

Harold grunted and Margie smiled at him, suddenly much more open in her demeanor.

"Why don't we go have some tea while we wait?" She asked even as she shuffled back to the kitchen.

The constable arrived an hour later, just after the kitchen clock chimed eleven-thirty. He was cold and took a cup of tea, sitting down with John and the elderly couple, blowing on the drink as steam rose from the cup and sipped slowly. Margie brought scones to the table and all three men partook.

"All right?" the constable asked John.

John nodded and swallowed his mouthful of food. "Did you find the cab?"

"Yep." The officer finished his tea. "On the side of the road, about five miles south of here. The engine wouldn't start, couldn't tell what was wrong."

"And the driver?"

The constable, Roddy as he introduced himself, shook his head. "Didn't see him. He could have gone the other way, but Margie and Harold are the closest to where you broke down."

The room fell silent at that. While John was worried for the man, he had a sinking suspicion that he had been one of Moriarty's men. Now that he had time to think about it, he had fallen asleep too quickly in the cab and had remained unconscious too long. John had probably been drugged, an aerosol probably, and then dumped out here in the middle of nowhere. There had most likely been a vehicle somewhere waiting to pick the driver up after he abandoned John on the side of the road, leaving John's phone behind as a message. John gripped his cup of tea and took a shaky sip as he tried to push the memory of Moriarty's voice out of his mind.

"I got a radio call from the office about taking you back with me. Some London bloke will be picking you up."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." John supplied helpfully.

Roddy looked at him curiously. "You have a warrant I should know about?"  
"No." John chuckled. "A few ASBOs that were cleared up. Lestrade's my friend."

"Ah. Well, better be off. There will be a recovery lorry coming by soon to pick up the taxi. We'll impound it for now. Come on."

John thanked Margie once again for her kindness and slipped on his jacket as he followed the constable out of the house and to the waiting patrol car. As both buckled their seat-belts, Roddy grunted and jabbed his thumb at the back seat.

"I almost forgot. I grabbed your present while I was checking out the cab."

John looked at the constable confusedly. "Present? What present?"

"The one that was in the back seat of the taxi with your name on it. Weird wrapping paper though."

John turned to look and felt his insides freeze when he saw the shoe box-size gift sitting innocently on the seat, wrapped in a plaster-themed paper.

"I'm a doctor," John said faintly, answering the unvoiced question.  
___________

Lestrade's BMW was filled with tension as they made their way back to London. John glanced at Lestrade every few moments and stifled a wince at the other man's tight jaw and narrowed eyes.

John had forgotten how hard everything had been for Lestrade after Sherlock's death. He fought for and just barely retained his position, though his credibility had taken a hit, all the while he tried to help John through his depression. It must have been hell on him, and John was too caught up in his own pain to honestly give Greg's situation any real consideration.

He licked his lips and was about to apologize for the past half-year when the car suddenly swerved to the left and slammed to a stop on the hard-shoulder. Lestrade's grip on the wheel tightened as he harshly inhaled, his nostrils flaring in agitation. The Inspector turned to John, and John knew that they would have to deal with a lot of things before the other man would fully forgive him.

"Enough, John. I want an explanation." Lestrade's voice was tired and angry.

"Alright," John agreed.

"I think I deserve... wait, what?" Lestrade cut off, confusion filling his eyes. "Did you just say alright?"

"Yeah." John nodded. "You deserve one, an explanation. An apology too."

Both men lapsed into silence, Lestrade shocked at John's easy capitulation and John trying to determine how to explain the past months.

"John..." Lestrade started.

"Just, give me a minute." John interrupted.

Lestrade sat back in his seat and watched the road through the windscreen. He lowered his window, pulled a cigarette out of his jacket and lit it, blowing the smoke out the opening in the glass.

He was patient as John collected his thoughts and didn't interrupt when the doctor began speaking. Lestrade smoked quietly until John reached the point when he woke up in the taxi and stopped talking. It was obvious that John wasn't saying everything, and the older man waited patiently, refusing to accept the partial explanation.

"Greg, do you... what happened to Moriaty's body?"

The question was unexpected, and Lestrade looked at John sharply. "They took it to the morgue."

"Who did? Did you see it?"

"John," Lestrade sighed. "What's this about? He's dead, he shot himself. Whether or not he was actually Moriarty or Richard Brook I don't know anymore, but it doesn't matter. He's dead. We'll search for the cabby, but I guarantee you that Moriarty had nothing to do with this."

John felt the dead weight of his mobile in his jacket pocket, pressing against him as the car lapsed into silence.  
__________________

  
Lestrade dropped John off a block from the doctor's bedsit, after John promised to meet Lestrade for a pint the day after Boxing Day. John watched the detective drive off and then began the short walk to his apartment. He climbed the stairs and wasn't really shocked when he saw Mycroft in his flat once more.

Too exhausted to be truly angry, John closed the door and draped the newly acquired jacket on the back of his desk chair. He plugged his phone into its charger and watched the low battery image blink at him before he walked silently past Mycroft to the bed. The cheap mattress squeaked under John's weight as he stretched out on it, kicked his shoes off, and covered his eyes with an elbow.

"Mycroft," John started tiredly, "please just say what you're here to say and then get out. Let that be your Christmas present to me."

The other man was quiet for a long moment before John heard him shift stance and clear his throat.

"The British Government has reason to believe that someone is trying to fill the void Moriaty left behind with his death. He's showing interest in picking up where Moriarty left off."

John snorted, an unkind sound, knowing full well who it was that was mucking about in criminal London. Again, he felt the weight of the phone, even though it was across the room.

Mycroft continued on, ignoring John's rudeness. "There's been evidence of accessing several individual's files, yours included."

The British Government finished speaking and waited for a reaction from the doctor. John kept silent and ignored the slight irritation rolling off the elder Holmes while he thought things through. It was possible that Mycroft wasn't aware of Moriarty's survival. However, it was also likely that Mycroft was trying to manipulate John into a useable position. He didn't want to get involved with whatever games Moriarty was playing, but he also wanted nothing to do with Mycroft.

"Do you have any understanding of what this means, John?" Mycroft asked, worry barely-hidden in his tone. He stared at John with slight pleading, as if silently trying to acquire John's good graces with a single look.

John waved his free hand idly. "Yeah, yeah. Doom and gloom. Stay away from windows, lock my doors."

The other man tisked disgustedly. "Really, John. I would have thought you'd care a bit more than this."

"Not really. Moriarty's power vacuum has nothing to do with me. I'm not competition and I'm not a threat. Anyone worth their weight in research would know that the danger would have been Sherlock, and he's dead."

Mycroft made a soft sound of distress, but John ignored it in favor of rolling over to face the wall. He pulled the covers over his body, too tired to undress, and jabbed a finger at the door.

"If you're so worried about me, leave your number on the desk. I deleted it from my mobile and can't remember it for the life of me."

He heard the faint groan of an umbrella handle being squeezed and then footsteps over to the rickety desk. Pen dragged across paper harshly before being tossed roughly onto the wooden surface in agitation.

"How did you get out of London without being seen?"

John felt his mouth twitch. "Taxi," he said simply.

There was thick silence between them for many long moments, the last-remaining Holmes most likely trying to deduce the night's events from John's posture, before he stepped up to John's bed. The older male placed a hesitant hand on John's shoulder, and the gentle squeeze of the long digits made John want to cry for a brief moment. He pushed the feeling away and shrugged the hand off his shoulder, and heard a weary sigh in return.

"I'm trying to make up for my mistake, John. Sherlock cared for you and, despite your anger with me, you should already know that I do as well. Though I am not usually a maudlin man, I have to admit that it pains me to see you hurting like this. I'm doing the best I can, but my best only goes so far when you insist on doing stupid and foolish things like today."

John couldn't stop the bitter smirk that lifted the corner of his lips. "I'll give you foolish, Mycroft, but stupid? I got past you, didn't I?"

Mycroft tisked again before leaving, letting the door snap closed a bit more sharply than he usually would. John chuckled tiredly and settled down to sleep, exhaustion finally overtaking him.

_______________________

  
Moriarty's gift sat menacingly on John's bed when he returned from Tesco on Boxing Day. He set the few provisions he purchased on the small counter he had in his bedsit and stared at the bandaid wrapped parcel with a great deal of mistrust. There was a note taped to it and he slowly leaned closer to read the building manager's messy hand-writing.

'Police dropped this off and asked you get it. No answer, let myself in. Sorry.'

John sighed quietly before focusing on the package. It was a bit larger than a shoebox, wrapped in white paper sprinkled with tan plasters. Obviously paper printed for get-well gifts, John thought as he poked the box with his spare cane. When nothing exploded, he cautiously sat beside it and fingered a piece of clear tape until his curiosity outweighed the dread that filled his stomach like a rock. John felt his heart begin to pound as he lifted the box and pulled the paper back, and the pulsing that filled his ears like a drumbeat reached a crescendo when an elegant wooden box lay naked on his lap.

The box was a deep mahogany, and the surface was sanded until the wood was obscenely soft to the touch. John caressed the sides absentmindedly as he shifted his focus onto the Caduceus inlay that resided in the center of the lid. It was gorgeous, the details so lifelike that it made John's breath catch in awe.

Large wings swept forward to provide shelter for the two snakes coiled about the staff. Individual feathers were painstakingly carved into the wood and the staff seemed to glow, but it was the snakes that held John's attention. They looked alive to John. Instead of around the staff, their writhing bodies seemed entwined around each other and the metal rod between them was merely an obstacle to overcome. Heads rose above the crystal orb that sat at the top of the staff, gracefully meeting with a delicate caress of noses, skulls slightly dipped in loving emotion.

John hissed as his finger caught against something in a sharp jab and he turned the box to see a tiny corner of paper poke out from underneath the lid. The box was closed with an old fashioned skeletal lock, holding fast, so he carefully worked the note out of the box's side and felt his fingers go cold as he opened the doubled-over page. Cursive flowed elegantly across the small note and in neat writing John was harshly reminded of just who it was that had sent the box.

 

_'Johnny Boy,_

_I apologize for not being there when you open my present but, sadly, duty calls. I'm comforted by the fact that you understand how frustrating that can be sometimes. The gift of hearing your voice will have to be enough to sustain me for now._

_I thought you'd appreciate having something for yourself this year. After all, every girl needs a killer accessory for a night out on the town._

  
Merry Christmas My Dear,  
Jim.'

 

  
The note shook slightly as John reread it with a growing sense of nauseating enthrallment. It was both horrifying and fascinating to read, the criminal consultant’s familiarity coming across as both affectionate and foreboding to anyone who knew the man. The threat of further interaction was clear. Moriarty had every intention of playing some new twisted game and, with Sherlock dead, John was clearly the new unfortunate playmate.

John felt his mouth dry up and he swallowed roughly before setting the box and note aside. He stood up and ran his hands through his hair as he paced. The piece of paper with Mycroft’s number still lay on the desk from the night before last, tempting John. He knew that he should call the other man, had almost done so several times in the past day. Mycroft would be able to do something, anything, to help him, to stop Moriarty before John was hurt too badly. But every time John had punched in the number he had hesitated before dialing, so many emotions whirled about his body that his fingers stopped before that last crucial action. It had been too difficult to do. It still was.

John looked away from Mycroft’s number and back towards the box. While he wanted nothing to do with Moriarty, knowing full well how disturbing and utterly destructive the unhinged genius could be, John also wanted to know what was in that chest. It was most likely a severed hand or contained a concentrated disease but, no matter what awful thing it contained, John still wanted to know.

It was locked though, and while it looked easy to pick he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be as simple as that. He'd need a key to get it open. The question was though, where would it be? John doubted Moriarty would hide it somewhere difficult and expect him to know where to look. For some reason, every one of the three geniuses he was acquainted with tended to think he was dim at one point or another. No, it had to be somewhere John would be able to get to, somewhere that made sense. Sherlock had always tended to make puzzles simpler then he needed to for John, and John had a feeling Moriarty would do the same, especially if he thought the doctor was as average as the next person.

John frowned and tried to think like Sherlock when the detective had been in a playful mood. Where would Sherlock, when Sherlock was pretending to be ordinary, put a key? John grinned suddenly and strode over to his coat, the one that Anthea had returned Christmas day. He dug through his pockets until he pulled his keys out with a triumphant ‘Aha!’ There on the ring with all his normal keys was a little silver skeletal key. The end that fit into the lock was a solid square instead of having a pattern to trip tumblers, something that had the doctor smirking in comprehension.

He walked back to his bed, sat down and pulled the box into his lap, tipping it backwards to see the lock. John slid the key into the open space and heard a quiet ‘beep’ of a mechanical lock disengage. He sat the chest back down and drummed his pointer finger on the lid, debating on whether or not he should give in and open it. Eventually his interest got the better of him and, with a deep breath, he opened the top.

Inside was another lid, a metal one with what looked like a fingerprint scanner. John bit his lip and slowly placed the tip of his middle finger on the pad. The lock beeped again and a small handle popped up. John pulled on it and the lid swung upwards. Inside was a SIG Saucer P226, not his but still clearly military issued, one that was used and well cared for.

John almost pulled it out, but stopped at the last moment when he remembered the cameras that were probably still in his flat. While he didn’t trust Moriarty, he trusted Mycroft less when it came to John and his firearms. Mycroft wouldn’t be taking this gun, not when John already decided that it was his. He had felt naked without his service weapon, as if part of him was missing. He refused to go back to feeling like that. If it meant accepting something from Moriarty then, for now, he would.

John closed both lids of the box and removed the key, hearing the box's lock engage immediately after. Silent moments passed as he contemplated Moriarty's gift and what to do with it. Eventually, he walked over to his desk and slid the bottom drawer open, lifting the bottle that he dumped there and placed the gun safe on top of the shallow scratches. Pills rattled as he shifted the prescription bottle around, and he stared at the label for a long moment before he slipped it into his trousers and made his way out the door, grabbing his coat on the way.

_________

January came rolling in with bitter winds and a coldness so harsh it drove most of London indoors for days on end. John spent most of the first month of the year splitting his time between willfully ignoring the growing number of texts and calls from Moriarty, rebuilding his relationships with his friends and family, and reconnecting with fellow service men he hadn't seen in years. By the beginning of February, John had had lunch, dinner, or drinks at pubs across the city with several old army buddies. Some even spent a few hours wandering the blustery streets with him as they talked about the old days. It was on one of these days that he returned to his apartment with a light spring in his step that vanished when he stepped out of the cab in front of his flat.

Kitty Riley stood in front of his building, hunched against the wind and looking in a nearby shop's window, her face pale and nose red from the cold. Her eyes caught his in the window's reflection and she stood straight and turned to face him fully. John felt fierce resentment shoot up from where it lived and instinctively tried to hide it, to shove it back down and swallow it whole. Kitty obviously caught a flash of it because she took a step back before her tenacity reasserted itself and she squared her jaw stubbornly.

John wanted to smack her.

He clenched his fists and ground his teeth before growling softly and marched inside, slamming the outside door closed with a harsh "Bugger off" as she tried following him in. He jogged up the stairs and felt his ire swiftly build as heels clipped their way up behind him. It was a short walk down the hallway to his flat door and he whirled around and hissed at her when he reached it.

"What do you want?"

She seemed surprised by the blatant hostility but stupidly pushed it aside.

"I'm working on a piece," Kitty started immediately. "I want to interview you for it."

John laughed, amusement and mean-spiritedness warring with each other in the sound. He only laughed harder as Kitty narrowed her eyes in annoyance.

"Stop laughing, Watson. I'm being serious," she glowered.

"I know," John said. "Which is why I'm laughing."

He turned back around and unlocked his door, leaving it slightly open to allow her to follow him in. His mind began whirling, processing the different scenarios he could potentially instigate that would allow him the right to hit the bitch. The door was closed behind him as he shrugged out of his jacket and he dropped it on the back of his chair, and he turned to face his unwanted guest once more.

Kitty stood by the door, well out of reach, examining his flat. This was the first time she had shown up after his move out of 221B, and he could tell she was a little surprised at the lower standard of his new living arrangements. Her eyes paused every so often on the peeling paint or random water-stain, and John sighed in irritation. She focused her attention on him and pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"Why did you move?"

The question was so sincere that John started laughing again and didn't stop for several moments.

"I know you aren't joking," he giggled, "but you're still bloody hilarious."

Her eyes narrowed.

"You people have done nothing but hound me day and night. I couldn't deal with it anymore," he explained slowly, as if to a mentally-challenged child.

"Why here?" she asked with faint traces of disgust.

John sat down on his bed and undid his boots. He dropped them onto the floor and leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles as he did so. He studied the reporter for a drawn-out minute before shrugging and glancing around disinterestedly.

"It's the only place I could afford that's near my therapist."

Kitty perked up at that and focused in on him. "Your therapist?"

John rolled his eyes. "I've got PTSD."

"And yet you ran around with Holmes."

The accusation was clear in the tone of her voice, and John didn't appreciate it. Blue eyes narrowed and an ugly look flashed across his face before disappearing, leaving the woman reporter looking unsure of herself.

"Though it's none of your business, I only started to get over my PTSD because I 'ran around with Holmes'."

Uncomfortable silence filled the small bedsit. John refused to break it, was actually entertained by Kitty's unease, and stared her down balefully. She shifted before sighing.

"Look, I want to do a follow-up piece."

White-hot rage rushed through John's veins and in an instant he was on his feet, gracefully stepping towards the journalist with such hatred on his face that Kitty rapidly backed into the door. John stopped just out of striking distance and stared at her harshly, his body motionless and strained from the effort. It was obvious that Kitty was just now realizing how precarious a situation she was in, just how dangerous ‘gentle and cuddly’ John Watson could be.

He spoke softly, the barely contained violence within his body evening his tone until his voice was flat and vicious, striking Kitty harder than his hand ever could.

"My best friend is dead because of you. You killed him. You may not have been up on that roof, but you put Sherlock there. You drove the one man keeping me from killing myself into suicide."

Kitty's eyes widened as John continued to speak, the doctor dredging up every black emotion he had inside hisself to make the woman in front of him hurt.

"You took away one of the only things that made my life livable. I spent months thinking of putting a bullet in my brain because of you. I watched my best friend jump to his death because of you. I had to see his body, his fucking brain, splattered on the pavement because of you."

"He was framing an innocent man!" Kitty cut in, her voice shaky from the quiet menace John was exuding.

"You're such a stupid bitch." John said simply, the easy tone doing more to shut the woman up then anything so far. "You don't know anything about Sherlock. Or Moriarty for that matter. All you know is what you want to believe, what Jim wanted you to feel and think."

Kitty's head snapped back, as if slapped, and her eyes narrowed. "Richard."

John leaned forward, making Kitty pull farther against the door in instinctive fear.

"Jim," he corrected in a sickly pleasant way.

He stepped away from her and slowly prowled towards his desk. He turned the chair and sat facing Kitty, his eyes hard as flint, and his lips quirked in a mean smirk that made something in John's gut turn over in restrained self-disgust.

"You don't know anything about Jim Moriarty."

"His name is Richard."

"Was," John said sweetly, his smirk deepening into something vicious. "Was, Kitty. He's dead now, blew his pretty brains out with a gun right before Sherlock splattered his on the pavement."

Kitty looked like she wanted to cry.

"Even still," John continued on casually. "In the few times I had the dubious pleasure of being in his company, I'm pretty sure I knew Jim better than you ever did, even though you were in a 'relationship' for months."

She stiffened and glared at him in building hatred. "Don't make me laugh."

John smiled. "I have no intention to."

Kitty's hand twitched and he went on, hoping to push enough buttons to get her to hit him, just so he could return the favor.

"Let me guess. Jim was smart. Jim was funny and sweet and gentle. Jim made you laugh, made you feel special. He made it easy for you to get to know him and the longer you talked the more you realized that he couldn't hurt a fly. He was so genuine in his remorse for going along with Sherlock's plan, you just knew he had to be telling the truth, the proof he provided only proved your intuition right."

Kitty looked deeply shaken by his words, staying silent as John kept talking, her eyes wide and glassy.

"I bet you would wake up at night sometimes and find him watching you sleep. You thought it was romantic. He would never sleep easily, nightmares that kept him awake. He'd have trouble focusing on you, probably thinking on what Sherlock was making him do. How am I doing?"

John's smirk slowly gentled into a smile after Kitty dumbly nodded, her expression now an awkward mixture of strained and awed.

"Jim wasn't watching you sleep, Kitty. He was keeping himself from killing you. He never slept because his brain wouldn't shut off, an insomnia-ridden genius running advanced facts and figures through his head, forward and back like you or I breathe. It wasn't guilt from Sherlock that made it impossible to pay attention to you, he wouldn't pay attention because you're ordinary Kitty, and ordinary people are just so boring."

John mimicked Moriarty's tone perfectly on the last two words, the blatantly patronizing and mocking lilt serving its purpose, and Kitty snapped.

"Shut up!" she yelled, pointing at John. She took a step forward and slashed her hand through the air, her eyes wide with rage. "Shut up! You don't know anything! Rich loved me. He loved me!"

John gave her a pitying look. "Jim loved playing with you. You were entertainment for him, a brief distraction from being bored."

"Shut up!" the woman screamed, furious.

"Now now, that's not very polite," John said with a frown. "If you don't like the truth then leave. You don't get to be rude to me in my own home just because you don't like the fact that Jim only fucked you to keep himself from being bored. Honestly, you should be grateful. Knowing him, I'm pretty sure it was either that or killing you."

He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Though, he would have had to start over on his plan to frame Sherlock if he had killed you, so I guess the only option _was_ to fuck you."

Kitty was apoplectic with rage. Her mouth moved without any sound before she threw herself at John, swinging her fists wildly and bringing them down on John's form with as much strength as she could muster, which just so happened to be a lot.

John grunted with the impacts and let out a loud cry as Kitty raked her nails across his face, gouging skin and drawing blood. He tried pushing her away, but she lunged for him again and dragged him to the floor, pinning his bad leg under him painfully. He cried out again as she slammed her fist and knee into his nose and groin simultaneously, fighting back the instinctive urge to vomit from the agony. Blood gushed from his broken nose into his mouth as he struggled with the attacking woman. He tasted copper and lost control over his stomach, retching up blood, rolling over as best he could so as not to choke on it.

John closed his eyes and covered his head as best he could, trying to protect himself from concussion. He grunted at each impact of sharp female fist until Kitty landed a solid hit on his kidney. John's eyes shot open and he let out a sharp shriek of pain, hands scrabbling at the floorboards, trying to pull himself away from his attacker. He heard the woman snarl and felt another brutal punch to the exact same place, forcing another scream out of his mouth.

A loud crash sounded from the far side of the flat, and Kitty's weight suddenly disappeared off of him. John didn't notice at first, being too busy trying not to throw his stomach up again but, as the pain slowly ebbed down into a sharp throbbing, he became aware of hands running over him.

He flinched back from the touch and tried to cover his head again but stopped when he recognized the person's voice as one of his neighbors, a university student who lived with his girlfriend. The younger male was panicked, obviously not sure what to do now that John wasn't in the process of being attacked.

John groaned and glanced over to where there were still flailing bodies and saw two of his neighbor's friends trying to hold Kitty without hurting her. She didn't seem to have the same concern and was currently trying to beat the two men detaining her as badly as she had John. John groaned again and curled into a ball, clutching his aching stomach.

"Hey," his neighbor said worriedly, leaning over John's battered frame. "We've got the police coming. Can you sit up?"

He helped John sit up and gently repositioned him so John's back rested against the bed-frame. The younger man quickly walked over to the sink and wet an old towel that hung on a cupboard knob, wringing it out before making his way back to John. He pressed it against the worst of the cuts on John's face and winced as John hissed in pain.

It only took a few minutes for the police to arrive. One of the two officers knew John and radioed in to inorm Lestrade while the other zip-tied Kitty's bloody hands together, taking photos of the evidence before it was cleaned off. The officer that radioed Lestrade knelt down beside John and examined the doctor's face. He winced at the broken nose, gouges from Kitty's nails and rapidly rising bruises and swelling.

In the twenty minutes it took before Lestrade rushed in through the door, the officers took statements from the witnesses and John himself. Kitty couldn't help herself and all the while kept spewing threats and slurs at the army doctor and the various men holding her stationary. When he finally did arrive, the Detective Inspector was a bit wide-eyed and breathing harshly after taking the stairs as quickly as he had. The older male took one look at the damage to John's face and turned to the officer detaining a now crying Kitty.

"Her... out... now."

Lestrade waved a jerky hand at the door, too enraged to completely articulate a sentence. The officer nodded nervously, obviously unsettled by the Inspector's terrifying expression. He marched Kitty out the door and down the stairs to the car that waited on the street.

Lestrade turned back to John and dropped to the floor beside him. "John? What happened? Jesus Christ, look at you!"

John, by this point, had adjusted to the vicious aching throughout his body and looked up at Lestrade pitifully. He poked at his eye that was swollen shut and hissed at the pain it caused, making Lestrade roll his eyes and pull John's hand away from his face.

"What happened?" he asked John again.

John wet his split lip and spoke carefully, trying to avoid adding to the stinging. "She was outside when I got back."

Lestrade nodded in understanding and motioned for him to continue.

"I told her to bugger off and she followed me up. I think I forgot to close the door. She came in and tried getting me to sit for an interview. She wants to do a follow up piece." John looked up at Lestrade with so much anguish in his visible eye that he saw the anger come roaring back into the older man's expression.

"What happened next sir?" the remaining officer asked, realizing that Lestrade was too upset to prompt John to continue.

"We got into an argument. I lost my temper and said some things I know I shouldn't have. She took exception and insulted me and I told her that she should leave if she didn't like what I had to say. I think I said something after that... but I can't... I can't really remember. She started hitting me." He gave Lestrade a slightly rueful look. "She's stronger than she looks."

Lestrade gave a weak laugh in return.

"She got my nose and groin at the same time, put me out of commission. I couldn't get the upper hand after that. I can't really remember what happened. I think she got my kidney a couple times."

"He wasn't fighting back at all," John's neighbor spoke up, causing everyone to look at him. "We heard the screams next door, and me and my friends came right over. We opened the door and saw her... well, beating him." He shifted uncomfortably. "Mark and Davies pulled her off him."

"Did she have any injuries that you saw?" Lestrade spoke up, verifying there was no wrong-doing on John's part.

John's neighbor shook his head firmly. "No sir. Like I said, he wasn't fighting back."

Things went quicker after that, and soon John was carted off to Sarah's clinic for a medical follow-up. Sarah gasped when Lestrade and John shuffled in and reorganized her patients so she could see to John immediately. The three filled the small exam room and Lestrade waited in the corner as Sarah took pictures for the police report and then cleaned and bandaged John's injuries. Overall, John was thoroughly embarrassed by the fussing and tried to shrug the concern off to no avail.

After an hour at the clinic, Lestrade took John to 221 Baker and left him in Mrs. Hudson's care while he went back to the police station to deal with Kitty Riley. Mrs. Hudson was both righteously angry by the attack, and concerned for John's pain. She deposited him onto her couch, told him to lay down, and went to make biscuits for him. John, tired from the exhausting and painful afternoon, did as he was instructed and fell asleep on Mrs. Hudson's obscenely comfortable couch.

  
________________

 

"Reporter Arrested for Assault on Holmes' Blogger!"

John sat back in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen chair and read the article as he sipped at the tea his former land lady made for him. He smiled at the overall theme of the piece, grateful that he had been made out to be the hapless victim in it all. He frowned though when the reporter gave facts that John rather wished he hadn't.

'John Watson, as many returning veterans from the Afghanistan and Iraq wars do, suffers from PTSD (more on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, see 5B). Watson was returning home from a reunion with a fellow veteran when accosted by Riley...

'It has been discovered that Watson took a turn for the worst after his friend's unfortunate suicide (more on Sherlock Holmes' suicide, see 1C), diving into a depression that only recently has begun to lift with the support from friends and family (more on depression, see 5B). In speaking with Donald Matters, a highly-respected Psychologist based in London, Matters believes that "the brutal reminder of Holmes' death has the potential of destroying all the hard work Doctor Watson has done to slowly rebuild."'

John scoffed and tossed the paper aside, not bothering to read the other Watson-related articles that littered its pages. He knew that there were a few rehashing the 'Was Sherlock Holmes a Fake?' debate, and had no wish to fall into that pit again. He turned to watch Mrs. Hudson stir a pot on the stove before finishing his tea in a long gulp.

The stations had quickly picked up the story and splashed it across the internet and papers, drawing nation-wide attention. While a few articles painted John as the bad-guy, the overall impression was that John was the victim of the entire thing, even back when Riley's first article came out.

The papers and blogs portrayed John as lost and unsure after his best friend's death, only now regaining his footing after his reputation had been unfairly sullied by Riley. His downward spiral, egged on by the unceasing hounding of the press, and his slow rise from the depression and returning PTSD were all written in neat black type for the world to see.

The reporters camped out again, both at his flat and 221, until a vicious article about a citizen's right to privacy was published, and forced the vultures away out of false morality. Well that, and the newly discovered fact that Kitty had been sleeping with Richard Brook.

When the first article with that little tidbit was published, the public went into a feeding frenzy. Suddenly the stories weren't focused on 'Poor John Watson'. Instead, they were all about Kitty and her boyfriend, who just so happened to be the man claiming Sherlock was a fraud. They were about her ambition and success at the expense of others, they were about coverups and lies. They were all about Kitty, upset over her dead lover, assaulting an innocent man because he was the closest thing she could get to Sherlock Holmes.

Kitty Riley very quickly learned how John had felt when the whole thing had gone FUBAR after her first article. Her world, her reputation, crumbled around her, and John couldn't make himself feel bad for her, though he really did try. Smiles came a bit easier, even though he was still trapped in Mrs. Hudson's flat on her couch, and he laughed more openly. It was a balm to his bruised soul, as horrible as John knew that was, and made him feel better than he had in months.

Right up until the reports of her suicide hit every major news desk.

He sat staring at the television, blankly listening as the reporter listed information in a matter-of-fact tone that did nothing to convey any feeling of remorse at the loss of a human life. An overdose of Trazodone, a anti-depressant medication so common that it sat on John's desk as well, prescribed by a physician the day before her death. She had been found by her sister, after dozens of calls had gone unanswered, dead in her bedroom.

  
John felt a little bit sick, and he started to hate himself for not being able to care more.

________

John's mobile buzzed repeatedly, slowly inching its way towards the edge of his desk. The Army doctor ignored it, used to the constant noise by now, and flipped the page of the magazine he was reading. He had turned the ringer, "Staying Alive," off days ago, unable to delete it or the number associated with it. While he had initially been terrified of the numerous messages and calls from Moriarty, feeling obligated to answer or respond for the safety of London as a whole, sometimes several times a day, he quickly grew irritated with them.

Especially the ones that seemed to border on sexual harassment.

The first time he'd had enough and had hung up on the criminal consultant, a week after opening Moriarty's gift, John had feared the worst. However when no one he knew ended up dead he felt some tension ease. He even growled at the blooming cactus that appeared on his doorstep the day after he ignored three calls and seven texts from the man. He chucked the plant out the back window, down into the unoccupied alley, and used the smiley-face note, "Because you're pretty and prickly!" as target practice.

________

  
March rolled through with its usual rain and dreariness before John heard from an old military acquaintance that he'd been looking for on and off since he was first discharged from the Army. He got the man's number from a fellow captain and called him over the phone one Tuesday night, reclining on his bed, left arm behind his head.

"Leave a message and I'll get back to you."

"Hey, Dummy," John started, a smile in his voice. "This is John Watson. I've been trying to get a hold of you for a while now. I know it's been a while, but if you're ever in London, I thought we could get a pint and catch up. I've been wondering how you've been since you've been out."

John rattled off his number and ended the call, smiling, before rolling over on the bed.

It was a week before John got a call back.

"Hey, Captain."

The voice was rough from years of smoking but the familiar smoothness was still there underneath it, and John felt his shoulders relax slightly.

"You in London?"

"Sorry, no. I'm in Edinburgh, got some time to kill though."

The two talked for over an hour before they hung up, trading gossip and jokes before getting onto more serious topics. John asked how the man's hip was, "It's fine, Watson. You should know, you're the one that stitched me up." and got asked in return how he was getting on with Harry.

John sighed. "Not good, actually. Harry's drinking again and made a royal mess of it. How about you? How's your little sister? She on the outs with big brother again?"

There was a pause before an annoyed sigh came through. "You know how it is, Captain. The question should be, 'When is she not?'"

John laughed. "We really should get together you know, when you have the time. I've missed having a life. Hell, maybe you can talk me into making up with my sister."

"Or simply taking mine."

John laughed again. "Tell you what, Dummy, you come through and we'll trade. Let me know and we'll make a date of it."

While they weren't able to meet up for another three weeks, they traded texts and phone calls back and forth, picking up the easy friendship that they had had for the few months they had served together. When they finally did meet, it was a busy Saturday evening at a pub down the street from John's flat.

John arrived a few minutes early and saw the other male already in a far booth, barely visible through the crowd. He was tall, making John tilt his head upwards when in close proximity. Light brown hair was cropped close to his skull and it looked as if the man had just rolled out of bed. He was in a military-green tee-shirt, a black jacket thrown over the back of the booth, and had aviator glasses on. Women around the vicinity shot unsubtle and lingering glances at him, biting their lips as he brought a cigarette to his mouth and inhaled, the strong square jaw flexing with the action. John rolled his eyes and made his way over to the table to sit down, a smile stretching his lips as he reached over to punch his companion's shoulder once.

"Dummy!" he called heartily.

The other man rolled his hidden eyes good-naturedly. "I hate you, you know. I've never been able to live that down."

John shrugged. "Not my fault your A's look like O's. So, what's your pleasure?"

Both men ordered pints and over the next couple hours chatted amiably. John eventually gave in and talked about his issues with Harry, which started a competition about who had the worse sibling. The other man won, making John buy him another beer to celebrate the victory. Things eventually turned into reminiscing about the military and the things they missed.

"The action," John murmured, staring off distractedly as he remembered the battle field and the wounded that came with it. "As backwards as it is, I miss the excitement. I was always in the thick of things."

"The fighting," the other said simply.

John thought back to the brief time that he served with the other man and remembered the eagerness for battle, the flush of adrenalin after shooting down an enemy, and was courteous enough not to mention it. They got to the habitual complaints about civilian life when John remembered the bag he brought with him. He pulled it close to him and zipped it open, lifting his head to look at the other male.

"I almost forgot. You liked to wood carve, didn't you?"

The other man nodded, interest growing as he craned his neck to see what was in John's hands. He leaned forward and let out a surprised noise when John deposited the gun safe onto the table. He pushed his glasses onto his forehead with a finger and crushed his cigarette out with his other hand, reaching for the box excitedly. He hesitated before touching it, looking at John for permission. John smiled and nudged it closer to the other veteran.

"I thought it was something that you with your freaky love of carving would be interested in taking a look at."

Blue eyes scrutinized the caduceus, fingertips running over the feathers and snakes reverently. He tilted the box so the lock was visible, and then turned it so the sides and bottom could be examined as well. A finger ran over a nearly invisible nick in the bottom before it was placed down gently, and John pulled it back toward him.

"That's high-quality work," the other said after a beat, his eyes still on the lid. The tone was bland, but there was a hint of inquiry, well-concealed beneath it.

John nodded, acknowledging the other man's comment, already knowing that Moriarty would never deal with something that was shabbily made, he had shown too much pride in his Westwood suit at the pool.

"It took some time too, that level of attention isn't cheap. Where'd you get it?"

John clenched his jaw for a second, uncertainty getting the better of him before he smiled. "An admirer."

A brown eyebrow inched upwards in dubiousness and John scowled at the other's smirk.

"Shut up," he grumbled, resting his hands possessively around the box.

"I didn't say a thing," the other murmured.

"Moron."

The other male sighed and finished his pint, throat working as he tossed the remainder back. He plunked the empty glass down and smacked his lips, waggling his eyebrows at John flirtatiously. "Shall we?"

John laughed but finished his own drink and slid the gun safe back into his bag. The two men stood together and made their way out of the pub, John snorting as he heard several women sigh as they left.

"My god," he said with fake disgust.

"I've told you before, Captain, I can't help being God's gift to women."

John rolled his eyes and turned right, heading away from his flat. The brunette easily matched stride with John as they walked along the streets in amiable silence, both listening to the night-life around them. The silence was broken occasionally as one or the other made a comment about something they saw but, for the most part, things remained quiet between them.

They walked the city for over an hour, casually strolling besides the Thames before reaching the underpass of a towering bridge. They turned a corner and passed beneath the bridge, shoulder to shoulder, into the faint yellow light of the tunnel. They traveled several feet into its depths until they were out of view of any cameras or passers-by before the taller male took the opportunity to gently push John against the stone wall.

"60 seconds. A swap you said?"

The words were hushed and John nodded, turning his head to glance at the tunnel opening. "In the box, one sister for another."

The other man nodded and slipped his glasses off, and John quickly opened the bag in his hand and removed the box, quietly withdrawing his keys as well. He slipped the skeleton key into the lock and lifted both lids to reveal the P226 that resided inside.

"Looks alright to me," the taller man murmured, eyes quickly scanning the piece.

"I don't trust who I got it from," John whispered back, tilting his head to look up into the gaze of the other soldier.

The man grunted in acknowledgement before grinning. "Thirty seconds. Time to finally get little sister off my back then?"

John bit his lip to stop the smile that threatened to form and was painfully aware of the potential tail that might enter the tunnel at any second. While he hadn't been followed by Mycroft's men before on these get togethers, he knew that it was likely that someone was following them tonight. John was sure that Moran was on someone's watch list, and so he was painfully aware of the visit from Mycroft he'd be getting because of this.

The taller man lifted the side of his green tee-shirt and jacket and his other large appendage slid backwards to where the new service pistol lay pressed against skin. The weapons dealer gave a small grunt as the gun pulled free and handed it to John as he quickly concealed John's old gun in it's place.

John deposited his new gun in it's safe, locked the box, and slipped the entire thing back into his bag. As soon as the bag was zipped, the taller man took the bag from John's hand, dropped it onto the ground and crowded John back into the wall. He cupped John's cheek with a strong hand and dipped his head down towards John's. The surgeon instinctively pressed his hands against the firm pecks in front of him, taken aback by the turn of events as the palm resting against his cheek nudged his face up into the meeting.

He was a little surprised when firm lips met his own, but, as he became aware of another person's presence at the entrance of the tunnel, he opened his mouth to allow the taller man's tongue entrance. They kissed for several long moments, giving their tail the opportunity to backtrack and hide, before John gently pushed Moran away, a regretful look in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sebastian," he murmured gently, genuine regret plain for the other man to hear.

Sebastian gave a small, doleful grin before shrugging. "I would have kicked myself if I didn't take advantage of the opportunity. I had the stupidest crush on you after you saved my life, you know."

"Moron," John chuckled.

Sebastian sighed, his focus split between John and the stranger who was now out of sight but eavesdropping. "Have I told you I hate you for that nickname?"

John laughed, his eyes lighting up a little in the dark. "It's your own fault that your A's look like O's."

"I was on morphine!"

"What's the excuse all the other times, Moron?"

"Shut up." Sebastian pulled away, his eyes running over John's face, as if to memorize it.

"I bet you still spell it 'Sebastian Moron'."

Sebastian growled playfully before grabbing the dropped bag and moving John out from under the bridge. He glanced around briefly before slipping an arm around John's waist, tugging the smaller man up against his side. John hesitated before giving into his instincts and slipped his own arm around Sebastian's waist in return.

It was oddly comforting having the larger man with his whip-cord muscles, so much stronger than John's usually were, holding him in place so easily. While the man-handling would normally irritate John, he had always been at ease with Sebastian on a level that he wasn't with many others.

John knew perfectly well what Sebastian Moran had been up to since his discharge from the Army. The grisly rumors had circulated through the veterans like any well-guarded secret, staying among their ranks and going no further. The news of Moran and his dealings had been spoken of quietly during the walks John and his various compatriots had taken, well out of the hearing-range of the CCTV cameras that sometimes stalked John. However, while Moran was involved in all kinds of illegal things, he was still a soldier at the core and was more than willing to aide another Army man in need... like John and the untrustworthy little sister he received from Moriarty for Christmas.

Sebastian was an arms-dealer and most likely also a killer for hire, what with his skill-set, but he was also someone that John knew he could trust to have at his back when money wasn't involved. It didn't bother John nearly enough that the man with the heavy forearm around his waist was most likely one of the men that had painted a sniper's laser point to his forehead on Moriarty's orders two years ago at the pool. Something like that was business for Moran, and John didn't begrudge him that.

The two men slowly made their way back to John's flat, noticing the thinning crowds as time passed. When they stopped at the door to John's building, John smiled up at the other ex-soldier and nodded his head upwards.

"You want a coffee? I remember you were partial to that."

Blue eyes searched his briefly before the brunette nodded and followed John up the stairs. John brewed two cups of coffee and straddled his desk chair, smoking one of Sebastian's cigarettes while the colonel reclined in the cushioned seat across the room. The infamous sunglasses were back on, making John want to point out that it was after midnight and therefore unnecessary. He kept mum though and Sebastian turned his head to light a cigarette of his own. The sniper rested his elbow against an armrest, cigarette held in the under-curve of his pointer finger, and exhaled slowly, gray smoke curling lazily as mirrored glasses locked onto John.

"It's hard sometimes, not being in the field," Sebastian spoke suddenly, his smooth voice deep from the smoke.

John nodded, drawing in his own lungful of smoke as he tilted his head back, pulling the cigarette from his fingers as he did so. "I know. Everything was so full of life there, so fast and busy. It was so noisy."

"You're there for so long that you get used to it, you start to thrive in it even."

"And then they ship you off with a bloody 'thanks for everything' and suddenly you're back, but you're not back." John's tone became bitter towards the end of his confession and he looked at his strained reflection in the other soldier's glasses, thinking of Sherlock and the emptiness the man had left in his wake. "It’s so damn quiet."

Sebastian nodded. "Everything's slow, and I still hate doing anything because it feels like everyone will hear it. It's like there's cotton jammed in me and for a while I wanted to eat a fucking bullet."

Familiar understanding sparked between the two men, tension building in the room as John watched Sebastian. Moran ground out what was left of his cigarette in a dirty coffee cup and stood. He prowled over to John and carded a hand through blond locks, tugging sharply and tipping John's head back. Sebastian lowered his lips until they were a breath away from John's and rested there for a moment, tempting John into saying yes.

John pushed down a shudder and ignored the thumping of his heart and the suddenly vibrant room around him. "No," he whispered, his lips brushing Sebastian's as he spoke.

The other male sighed and withdrew, running his hidden gaze over John's face once more, before he made his way to the door. He grabbed his jacket and slipped it on, turning around to smirk at John.

"Too bad," he conceded gracefully. "Anyways, try thinking of getting away for a bit. It doesn't seem like it would help, but a bit of country air and some good walking can do wonders. At least out there you know there's a reason for the quiet."

John studied the taller man in front of him, his gaze probing and astute. He nodded faintly and muttered, "I might just do that," before standing and approaching the other male. Deft fingers that had dipped into thousands of bodies, sewing up organs and saving lives, and that had pulled a gun's trigger too many times to count, reached up and removed Sebastian's glasses, slipping them into one of the man's jacket pockets. He looked into curious blue eyes and pulled the man down into a filthy kiss, opening his mouth for the other's questing tongue. Sebastian made a surprised sound but quickly took control, mapping John's mouth expertly, knowing that this would most likely be the last time he'd have such an opportunity.

The kiss continued for several minutes before John disconnected their spit-dampened lips and pressed his cheek against Sebastian's, whispering into the man's ear too quietly for the cameras in the flat to pick up. "If this gun is tampered with, or modified in any way other than to destroy bullet markings, I'll know and I'll make your life hell, Sebastian. Don't think I won't."

Sebastian stiffened imperceptibly against him, the hand on the back of the doctor's neck tightening in acknowledgement, and John continued on in a tone that was surprisingly intimidating for a man of his stature. "I'll probably take you up on your offer, but I want you to tell Moriarty to stay away because he can't behave. If he doesn't I'll take my new little sister and put a bullet in him, someplace that won't make you shoot me in return. I'm not up to playing his game right now."

John stepped away and watched Sebastian study him for a long moment before the sniper nodded and left the flat, soft thumping from the man's boots sounding down the stairwell as he disappeared. John closed the door and locked it, letting out a frustrated groan as he dropped his forehead against the wood, a sigh passing through his swollen lips.

  
______________________________

Mycroft did not disappoint, and the next afternoon John watched as the sleek black car pulled up to his building and the elder Holmes stepped out, buttoning his suit jacket with his usual grace and elegance. An intelligent gaze looked up and met John's and John sighed before moving away from the window.

The blonde felt tired irritation but forced it down. After Moran had left last night, John decided to let some of his anger at Mycroft go. While he was no where close to forgiving the man, John reluctantly acknowledged that Sherlock himself had been a major contributing factor in the detective's death. So while Mycroft may have given the damning information to Moriaty, it was Sherlock that had blindly walked into the entire situation by encouraging the criminal consultant in the first place. Try as he might, John knew that at the end of things, it had been Sherlock's choice to jump.

So while he wasn't happy with Mycroft, John thought he could try to get past the festering anger that was eating away at him, feeding his lingering depression. If it also meant alleviating some of the elder Holmes' concern, and therefore the close monitoring he put John under, all the better. After all, there was a lot that John was just barely hiding from the man that he'd prefer to keep to himself for as long as possible, the near-constant one-sided harassment from Moriarty being one.

John started the kettle that he had laid out earlier and pulled out two cups from the cupboard. He debated if he should go so far as to look for the biscuits he bought last week at the mart but decided to not be that charitable and turned to rest against the counter as the door opened.

Mycroft slid his assessing gaze over the bedsit and frowned at John. He closed the door and stood uncomfortably in front of it, appropriately unsure of how welcome he was. John raised an eyebrow in amusement, causing the taller male's frown to deepen slightly.

"You shouldn't leave your door unlocked, especially after previous events. That is an exceedingly foolish thing to do."

John discerned the apprehension hidden in the withdrawn tone, remembered the situation with Kitty Riley, and felt his amusement at the older man die down just a little.

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. "I knew you'd be by."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but John didn't bother with explaining. The British government sighed before shifting again, his gaze landing on the bottom drawer where John's gun-safe resided. John felt anger stir in his stomach but forced himself to ignore it as the tea-kettle began to whistle behind him. He turned and began pouring the tea into the cups, adding in the right amount of cream and sugar they both took. He left Mycroft's cup on the counter and carried his own over to the chair Sebastian had sat in the previous night, knowing instinctively that the other man would be more comfortable and less irritating in the high-backed desk chair.

After seeing Mycroft at the door still, a wary expression now etched onto his face, John rolled his eyes in exasperation. "It's not poisoned," he supplied helpfully.

The genius not convinced, John sighed and looked down into his tea, speaking softly into the room. "This is me trying, Mycroft."

That seemed to nudge the other into action, and Mycroft quietly moved to take the cup of tea and cross the room to sit at the desk. Both men were quiet for several long minutes, neither wanting to ruin the delicate truce being offered, until Mycroft placed his cup down on the desk and turned his body to face John. John crossed his right leg over his left and leaned back in his chair, taking in the other's guarded expression.

"Just say it, Mycroft," John said after a moment of silence.

"The man from last night," Mycroft began, uncertain of how to proceed.

"Sebastian Moran," John offered, already knowing where this meeting was headed.

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, Moran. What do you know about him? How did you meet?"

John shrugged, quickly running his options through his head. He could lie, but there was too much evidence to support any blatant falsehood. The same with even a half-lie. Mycroft would eventually find out the complete truth and John would be back under the elder Holmes' scrutiny. The truth, or as close to it as possible, was the best option in this case.

From the more-open expression on Mycroft's face, John knew the other man had followed John's thought-process to the same conclusion. He knew that it should bother him, being so easy to read, but John had long grown accustomed to the invasion of privacy from Sherlock.

"Sebastian and I served together for a few months, a year or so before I was shot and injured. He was wounded badly enough that he had to be discharged and sent home."

"I take it you were acquaintances then?" The question was simple but John heard the underlying insinuation, most likely driven by the kiss he had instigated.

John snorted and chose to ignore the jibe at the possible intimacy. "You can't serve with a man for any length of time and not know him. But we were friends, yeah. "

"Better than, I would think."

Mycroft's tone was one John hadn't heard from the man before, and so John stayed silent and examined the other male for a moment, trying to place it. His eyes widened slightly before he let out an explosive sigh, rubbing a hand over his face with a tired laugh.

"Not you too," John mumbled. He shook his head. "Sherlock and I were not lovers. There was nothing going on. Mycroft, you should know that better than anyone."

Mycroft shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "Well, you're behavior these past months..."

John sighed again. "Look, I'll admit Sherlock and I had an unhealthy amount of co-dependance going on, and I do love him, but I was not IN love with him, Mycroft, nor he I. I lost my best friend and the closest thing I had to a brother. You should..."

He bit his tongue and cut his last statement short, not wanting to start an argument that could rapidly escalate. Mycroft's biggest weakness was still his little brother and insinuating how he should feel about Sherlock's death could quickly turn things very ugly between them.

Mycroft, being Mycroft, knew perfectly well what John was going to say but seemed to appreciate John's reluctance to say it. They both knew that a month ago John would not have held such a comment back, using it to cause as much pain as possible. It made John realize in a flash of shame just how far he had fallen since Sherlock's death.

"You were not lovers then, you and Moran?" Mycroft asked, trying to move past the awkward lull in the conversation.

"No," John said firmly.

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, a mannerism that he obviously picked up from John. "Then you were awfully familiar with a mere army 'mate'."

John squeezed the cup in his hand and gave a faint smirk. "Have you ever regretted doing, or in this case not doing, something, Mycroft?"

Mycroft nodded faintly, quietly prompting John to go on.

"Sebastian and I connected the first minute we spoke. It was an easy friendship, like Sherlock and I, only different. Sherlock and I were completely opposite, but we complimented each other, we gave each other what we needed. Sebastian and me? Well, we were just alike where it mattered and that was comforting. We understood why the other did what they did; and to know that we were accepted, not in spite of it but for it?

"You know me, Mycroft. You read my file. I'm a mess, and I was worse during the war. Moran was a mess as well and we bonded because we recognized that in each other. I like helping people, that's why I became a doctor, but I've never been cut out for a plain life. I just can't do it.

"The soldiers around me would dream of having a normal, ordinary life. Well, I'd dream of that too," John gave Mycroft a strained smile. "But it would be a nightmare, the thought of going back. I felt like a freak sometimes, wishing I'd never have to go home. Then I met Sebastian."

John went quiet, staring down into his cup. He ran the chaotic thoughts and memories through his head, trying to put them in some semblance of order before continuing.

"Like I said, we connected and there was always this feeling in the background, a 'what-if'. Then he got wounded and shipped home, and we lost touch and never got to explore that 'what-if'. Last night was seeing if that was still there. There are a few men that under the right circumstances could get my attention."

"Like my brother."

It was the way Mycroft responded, how the calm acceptance seemed to simply radiate from the other man, that made John's eyes threaten to fill. Words caught so John simply nodded, clearing his throat before looking Mycroft in the eye.

"Yeah, like Sherlock. If things had been different, if he'd been the least bit able, I would have tried for him. But I knew he wasn't capable of it so I never let it go in that direction. I was happy to be his best friend. In no way did I ever need to be his lover."

Mycroft nodded. "You were good for him. He actually tried to be a better person for you, a good person. No one ever made him care like that before, not even his family."

John felt his throat thicken further and his eyes fill, and he wiped the tears away before they could fall. "Sherlock would always come first, even when he was being an utter bastard, because I knew why he was trying. I didn't let on, but I knew why. I knew that he tried to make himself feel something for me. We were good together, even if it was in a dysfunctional way that would make therapists cringe. It was only logical to him for things to progress in that manner. He tried, I know he did."

John gave a wet laugh at Mycroft's understanding look. "But he just couldn't. So he tried to become a better man so I wouldn't leave him. Sherlock came first because he tried to do that for me, even though he knew he couldn't. I didn't let things go in that direction because I knew from the start that it wouldn't be fair on either one of us."

"And Moran?" The older male asked gently.

"He understood what it's like, and I remembered how easy it was." John shook his head roughly. "But I knew, even over the phone, that it wouldn't work. We were too much the same and I need something different now. I want more."

John stared at the trembling cup in his hands and was startled as long elegant fingers curled over his own, stilling the cup. He looked up into Sherlock's brother's eyes and felt a part of him break apart again.

Mycroft slipped the cup from his grasp and left John to himself while he poured more tea for them both, allowing John time to gather his composure. The older man pressed the refilled cup into John's hands as he passed, ignoring the still trembling digits and paleness of John's face.

"What do you know of Moran?" Mycroft asked, getting them back onto topic.

John took a sip of his tea and ran a hand through his hair. "History-wise?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Well," John trailed off, thinking about that. "Not much actually. He was never close to his family, I don't think. Didn't have too many real friends in the Army, just like I didn't. He tended to keep to himself when I wasn't or couldn't be around.

"We lost touch after his discharge. I only managed to get a hold of him a month or so ago. One of the other captains in my unit ran into him a while back and got his number. Mark was kind enough to pass it along when he heard I was looking for him."

"So you know nothing of his current exploits?"

John shook his head. "I could guess though. I steered clear of that particular topic whenever we talked."

Mycroft tilted his head again. "And why would you do that?"

"I know Sebastian," John repeated. "I know him well enough to know that he'd be less happy with civilian life than I would. I had a feeling that he'd be doing something at least a little unsavory."

"Interesting how right you're intuition was, Doctor."

John shrugged, uncaring. "As long as I didn't ask, I wouldn't have to know the details."

"And now?" The other man sipped his tea.

"I still don't know."

Silence descended but, somehow, it was no longer as stiff and angry as it had been since Sherlock's death. John waited for Mycroft to reprioritize his thoughts, drinking his tea and staring out a window.

"You are aware of his connections to the black market."

It wasn't a question, and John's gaze drifted to the closed desk drawer. "You took my pistol."

Mycroft nodded. "You were close to rationalizing your actions. You would have realized what you were doing and why, and then you would have been dead. Sherlock would never have forgiven me. He entrusted your protection to me, and I would never have been able to forgive myself if I failed you in such a manner. While you are not my brother, Doctor Watson, you have a place in my affections as well."

John nodded, unsure of how to handle such a powerful statement, given in so bland a tone. He decided to ignore it for now and returned his attention to the original topic.

"I wanted my gun back and had a feeling Moran could help, and so I reached out to find him." John rolled his shoulders. "I waited until I thought it was safe, until I wasn't thinking that maybe shooting myself was a good option. Having another gun right then would have been a bit not-good."

"He deals in the weapons trade," Mycroft explained, again knowing when to drop a touchy subject. "However, that is not his primary career path."

John nodded, not needing the other's validation. "Assassin, right? Sniper?"

Mycroft nodded. "Up until nearly a year ago, under the employ of one primary employer."

John leaned back and looked at the ceiling, weariness seeming to over take him.

"Let me guess, Moriarty?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, bugger my life. That explains a lot," John said conversationally.

"You are far less upset about this than I assumed."

John shrugged. "It makes sense in a way. Sebastian's always been a natural at it, one of the things that made him such a mess. He loved it, and hated that he loved it. It makes sense that someone like Moriarty would have found him."

"And yet you still trust him with providing you a weapon?" Mycroft asked incredulously.

"Why wouldn't I?" John asked, innocent confusion on his face.

"By all accounts, he was Moriarty's right-hand man," the older man pointed out, making it plain that he thought John was being an idiot.

John waved his hand. "Moriarty's dead, yeah? Then Sebastian's not getting any orders to kill me, is he? I know Sebastian. If he had orders, he never would have answered my first call. He's still a friend."

"A friend who would kill you for the right amount of money," the elder Holmes drawled.

"You'd kill me for a good enough reason." John pointed out reasonably, startling Mycroft. "Not that you'd be happy about it, but in the right situation you would give the order if you had to.

"Sniping is his job, I'm not going to begrudge Moran that. Would it suck if he killed me? Yes, of course, but without Moriarty in the picture I can depend on Sebastian a hell of a lot more to get me a weapon that I can trust. We're friends, and we'll be friends even if he does put a bullet in my head. At least I know he'd do it right. Besides, Sebastian wouldn't kill me unless he was paid too, and even then I think it would have to be a very tidy sum."

"You're putting an awful lot of faith in the man who killed for Jim Moriarty."

"I've killed for Sherlock and that hasn't stopped you," John bit back.

Mycroft's jaw snapped closed at that, the man sighing tiredly before giving in. He started to speak just as John's phone vibrated on the desk where it was laying face down. Mycroft glanced at it before extending his hand, preparing to pass it to John, when John stopped him.

"Leave it. I know who it is."

The phone stilled and Mycroft turned back to John.

"It could be important," The man pointed out.

"No," John said, evenly. "It really couldn't."

The mobile buzzed once, as if in response, before stilling, leaving both men watching it for a moment. John cleared his throat to get the other man's attention.

"Anything else you need in regards to Moran?"

"No," Mycroft sighed. "There's nothing to be done. For right now, the man is untouchable. He has too many fingers in the right pies. I merely wanted to ensure you were aware of the danger. However, seeing as how you are content to ignore my warning-"

The phone buzzed again, interrupting Mycroft as another text came through. The man motioned to the mobile. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, positive. I've been ignoring him for months now."

Mycroft looked at him strangely before picking back up. "As I was saying, with your lackadaisical approach to your-"

Another text.

"Safety, I have no choice but to- Oh for heaven's sake!" Mycroft huffed as yet another text followed right on the heels of the previous. "I insist you tell me who that is so I can have them audited."

John bit the inside of his cheek at the image and shrugged.

"Moriarty," John said with straight honesty. "With the current trend, he's most likely offering dinner and a shag. Though probably not in that order."

Mycroft stared at John for an exceptionally long moment before rolling his eyes. "Really, John, if you wish to keep your secrets that badly. Fine."

He picked up his umbrella and headed toward the door, John watching him leave with a bemused expression. Mycroft opened the door and stepped out, murmuring just loudly enough for John to hear before the door closed.

"Dinner and a shag, honestly."

John remained sitting for a minute before dragging himself over to the desk, lifting his mobile up to stare at the screen. He scrolled through the text log and huffed.

"Of course," he sighed, reading the second to last message.

'Dinner and a shag, Johnny Boy?'

And the last text that came immediately after.

'Though not necessarily in that order. ;D '

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the constant stream of annoying texts from Moriarty- ones steadfastly ignored unless they blatantly threatened someone John knew- things remained relatively calm. John's limp and tremor fluctuated until they both disappeared entirely, making it possible for the Army doctor to get back into work at a surgery. The day-to-day grind of monotony that slowly drove John into the deep pit he had been in was broken by random bursts of activity and the simple ability to work again. Also, the increase in his finances enabled John to save for a much needed holiday away from London, something he looked forward to the closer he got to the anniversary of Sherlock's death.

After clearing some of the air after Sebastian's visit, Mycroft had taken to stopping by more frequently, something that John found both amusing and irritating. While he was still angry at the man, it was slowly growing more difficult to express it. John, with his doctor's eye, could see the impact that his brother's death and John's depression had had on the proud and able man. Mycroft had lost weight, a clear indicator of the great strain the official was under.

John slowly, ever so slowly, opened up and as he let his anger go the tension in Mycroft seemed to gradually fade as well. The older male seemed truly relieved at John's improvement, lowering the amount of time John was under surveillance. While the monitoring didn't disappear entirely, John was willing to overlook it if it meant he could move around more freely. He knew that Mycroft was still suspicious John might shoot himself with his new firearm but he allowed John to keep it due to the still constant threat of the "new" criminal entity in London.

How Mycroft didn't realize Moriarty was still alive John didn't know, but it was humorous to think that the insane genius had outsmarted the pompous one. Moriarty wouldn't be nearly as conspicuous in regards to John if Mycroft knew he was alive. The texts and phone calls that interrupted the British agent were all too well timed to be anything but unsubtle mocking. Well, unsubtle to John.

The doctor was beginning to think that Moriarty was doing it to entertain John more than to annoy Mycroft. Though John was sure that the latter was still a welcomed side-effect for the megalomaniac. The messages had taken a slight turn in direction and were now offering bits of information, promising more if only John would respond back.

John never did.

He knew perfectly well what encouraging the criminal consultant got you. An image of the pavement covered in Sherlock's blood flooded his mind. John refused to go like Sherlock and allow himself to be trapped in such a terrible mess, a horrible "game" constructed by the unstable Moriarty. John would not fall like his best friend had, ego and confidence blinding him until he was standing on the ledge, looking down. It had been too late for Sherlock, but John could see the roof for what it was and stayed away.

John wouldn't play Moriarty's game. However, that didn't seem to deter the criminal consultant, instead it seemed to spur the man on. Texts became teasing, humorous even, and the constant undercurrent of malice seemed to stop all together after the meeting with Sebastian.

Nothing was mentioned about that night, and that in turn allowed John to continue his friendship with the sniper in peace. While he would have still returned the phone calls and messages from Sebastian, it would have felt strained if Moriarty had put his nose in it. The genius was most likely invading Moran's privacy about the communications but as long as it wasn't John being harassed about it the doctor was fine with that. There was little John could do about the invasion of privacy except accept what he could get and move on with his life and what little sanity he had left intact.

So, as June came threateningly closer, John began to examine his bank account and the possible escape routes he could afford out of London. While he had managed to save a good chunk of money there wasn't enough for anything extravagant, like a cruise or holiday overseas. Something close to home then, possibly a trip to Scotland where he would be far, far away from reporters and Bart's. A walking holiday maybe. Sebastian had said it could do John good to get away to the country for a bit.

John opened his laptop and searched for popular walking tours around mid-June that he could afford, hoping to find one that would keep his mind off of things that would be going on in London.

After a half-hour of scrolling, he landed on a page that offered multiple walks based on difficulty. John examined the rating levels and knew he had found the right place. He eventually settled on a grueling 120 mile long tour from Dartmoor to Exmoor, an inn-to-inn walk that mixed coastline and high moorland with picturesque villages.

If everything went well, John would miss most of the activity that the anniversary would stir up and he would be left in relative peace. The long hours spent walking would leave him too exhausted at night to stay awake dwelling and there would be no time for television or newspapers besides the ones at the inns, and those he could avoid easily.

With the dread of having to be in London on the twelfth gone, John went about the next three weeks before his trip in a better mood. He even lunched with Harry and, while his sister was still drinking, he was happily surprised when it appeared that she was making in effort to stop again. John felt himself touched at the obvious concern she showed for him.

John made it clear to everyone he knew that he would be leaving before the anniversary for a holiday and would not be back until well after it. He explained about the walking tour and his enthusiasm to get away and so, while they were still worried about him, they supported his trip.

Mycroft, the only holdout, was dubious, obviously remembering just who it was that suggested the idea to John in the first place. He couldn't do much to stop John from going though, not when John made it clear that he might relapse if he was forced to stay in London. The elder Holmes hummed and nodded in the right places but John wasn't fooled. The army doctor knew Mycroft would want to pry, so he forced a compromise. John would answer every one of Mycroft's calls on his holiday if Mycroft didn't snoop, spy, or pry into John's time away. The older man reluctantly agreed only after John promised Sebastian Moran would not be accompanying him on the trip.

With everything set and paid for, John - with his depleted bank account - packed a bag and made his way by rail to Devon a day early to see the sights and relax some before he met up with the tour group at the Totnes railway station.

Totnes was mid-size, the station building converted to serve more as a museum than anything else, with several tracks and large platforms on either side. People were standing around, filling the platform with idle gossip and laughter, and John pushed his way into the throng, hefting his bag higher on his back as he did so. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had 15 minutes to find his group, and hoped that there was another train coming through before his.

Another train did come and go, taking a large number of the people on the platform with it, and John finally found the tour group with five minutes to spare. The group wasn't that large, 10 or so with the walk's manager, but they were all younger than John, decked out in the latest hiking fashion, and made him feel out of place with his worn boots and beaten up Bergen rucksack from his army days.

The manager, a young man in his late twenties, saw him and waved, a smile spreading his lips. He bent over and pulled a clipboard from his own rucksack and clicked the pen that appeared in his hand. Group members looked up at the change in their leader and stared as John made his way over.

"John, right?" he asked as John came to a stop in front of him.

"Yep, that's me."

John offered his hand and the younger man shook it firmly, squeezing slightly before letting go and checking something off on the clipboard. John glanced at the paper for a second, seeing it was a group roster, and examined the rest of the group around him.

"Hey, I'm Brandon, the walk manager. Guys, this is John. John," Brandon pointed at random people in the group. "Carla and Charles, Lucy and Sandra, Ben, and Veronica and Mark."

Each couple nodded as they were introduced and Ben waved with a small smile.

"I'm going it alone," Ben said with a grin. "You're friends bail on you too?"

"Nope." John shook his head. "I wanted to get away and this seemed like fun."

"Walking? Fun?" The woman John thought was Veronica gave him an incredulous look. She jerked her head at her partner. "You'll get right along with this one."

John laughed and nodded his head to his rucksack on his back. "Army, guess you get used to it."

Brandon laughed. "Four years myself, and that was more than enough."

The younger man's last words hit a mark and John forced a smile on his face, remembering his comment to Mycroft the day after Sebastian's visit about his reluctance to return home from the war. He shifted his bag again and looked around the station for a distraction.

Brandon must have picked up on John's reluctance to commiserate and changed the topic. He gave John a searching look that made the doctor curious before quickly glancing away. "The train is running a little late, which is good because our last member isn't here yet."

A horn blew in the distance and the group turned to see the train slowly rolling closer down the track. Brandon cursed and quickly looked around again, trying to see the missing group member. The train grunted to a stop and passengers began to exit and then board, conductors helping individuals get luggage on or off in the melee.

Brandon sighed. "Crap! Alright everyone, get your stuff, I guess we'll be one short. I'll text him on the train."

The group climbed aboard, Charles and Mark struggling with their girlfriends' multiple luggage bags and Ben snickering at them beside John on the ground. John sighed and helped Mark with a particularly heavy bag, grunting at the weight of it.

"My god, Veronica! What the bloody hell did you pack?" Mark groaned as he heaved the bag into the car.

"Shut it, Mark! You're the one that thought walking was a good idea!"

Ben rolled his eyes and climbed in, leaving John and Brandon on the platform. Brandon sighed and reluctantly motioned for John to board, glancing around one last time. John shrugged, feeling his mobile vibrate in his pocket as his boots rung on the metal threshold. He pulled it out and glanced down at the text from Sebastian.

'Sry. Plse dnt hrt hm.'

The message was rushed, Sebastian always used entire words unless short on time, and John squinted as he tried to puzzle it out. Brandon stepped up beside him and John turned the phone slightly so the other couldn't see the screen. The doors began to close but a frenzied "Wait! Wait!" called from nearby and the nearby conductor paused the door.

John's mind flashed back to the text message and had him instinctively shouting, "No, don't!"

The conductor scowled before pushing John away. "Move aside to let the passenger on."

John groaned as he saw the panicked figure running down the platform.

"Wait! Oh, please! No no no! Please don't go! I have a ticket!"

Moriarty was in jeans and a purple tee shirt, a bag on his back and a duffel slapping against his thigh as he ran towards them, his arms straight out and hands grabbing at air in a ridiculous manner that made Brandon snicker and the conductor snort.

Moriarty latched onto the door frame and the conductor pulled the slighter man into the train. Moriarty squeaked - honest to God squeaked - and stumbled sideways, knocking into the hard side of the car with a pained grunt, causing Brandon's hand to shoot out and steady him. Moriarty blinked, one hand on the conductor and the other on the walk manager, before he regained his balance and gave both men a grateful look. Black eyes swept the space and landed on John, where the army surgeon stood leaning against the back wall, fingers rubbing at his eyes.

"Johnny!"

Moriarty squealed John's name and lunged at him, giving the doctor one lightning-fast moment to contemplate his life choices before long arms latched onto him and a thin body plastered itself against his side. John shoved at the criminal consultant, a growl escaping his throat but Moriarty was stronger than he looked and wouldn’t budge an inch.

"Oh John, I was so scared I was going to miss the train! Did you see me?" Wide, adoring eyes looked at John. "I think I ran faster than ever before. Not even that one time at Harrods when they had that sale!"

Brandon, with a twitching smile, stepped closer and stuck out his hand. "Jimmy! I'm glad you made it."

Moriarty released John long enough to shake Brandon's hand before he latched back on, pressing his head against John's tense shoulder. It made the conductor snort once again and John want to stab Moriarty in the face before tossing his body off the train.

"Me too! Johnny's been doing nothing but talk about this for the past month! You have no idea how upset I would have been if I had missed it."

John pushed at the slighter man again, wanting to get free so he could throw himself out the door, but the arms around his shoulders tightened in response. Moriarty ignored John's growing anger and gushed at Brandon excitedly, willfully ignoring the tour guide's uncertain gaze as he looked between a tense John and Moriarty.

"Get. Off," John hissed, making all three men turn to look at him.

Moriarty looked at him for a moment in incomprehension before his eyes widened and turned a bit glassy, much to John's horror.

"Oh," he said simply and released John in order to step back in embarrassment. His knuckles turned white around the duffel bag handles and he turned his head away. "Of course you'd want to come by yourself. How silly of me. I should have thought... I'm... oh dear."

Moriarty cleared his throat and quickly entered the train car behind them, dropping his bag as he fought the inner door and closed it with a hard snap. All three remaining men watched as he made his way to the opposite end and locked himself in the bathroom, several passengers looking up in confusion. Brandon and the conductor turned to John with an accusing eye, and the conductor scowled before heading in the opposite direction.

Brandon shifted uncomfortably before rubbing the back of his head. "Listen, I know it's none of my business, but he really seems to want to fix things."

John blinked, staring at the younger man in confusion before his horror rocketed to new levels. Brandon didn't seem to notice because he continued on in an embarrassed tone that left John's head throbbing in a precursor to a migraine.

"He was really excited when he called, wanted to make it some big surprise. I didn't think it would hurt anything. Just, don't be too mad, yeah? He seems like a good guy."

Brandon shuffled into the car, leaving John to silently stew in his growing hysteria. John leaned against the wall and covered his face with his hands, breathing deeply several times before he pulled out his mobile and dialed Sebastian.

"You fucking bastard," he hissed when the other man picked up.

There was a tired sigh. "He ordered me not to tell you. I let you know the instant I could, and I mean the instant. He closed the car door and I was texting you."

"The tour guide thinks we're a couple!"

Sebastian was quiet.

"Sebastian? Did you hear me?"

The sniper cleared his throat and his response was choked. "What is it with you and your genius boyfriends?"

"Sebastian!" John gaze snapped back to the car's window, checking to see if anyone inside had heard his raised voice. He hunched his shoulders and stared out the train door and watched the scenery pass by in a blur of irritated disbelief. "You're not helping! What the hell is he playing at?"

"Well..." Moran drawled, thinking his answer through carefully. "He didn't exactly tell me."

"Guess," John hissed.

Sebastian cleared his throat again. "Um... he might be trying to play with you, what with the twelfth being so close."

John closed his eyes in pain, his heart stabbing into his chest and he swallowed the tears that ran down his throat. He cleared it, similar to Moran's earlier action. "I'm hearing a 'but' though."

Moran shifted, leather of a car seat squeaking. "I think he might have a crush on you."

Hysterical giggles escaped the army doctor and he slid down the wall until he was crouched with his head in his free hand. "Please, please pull the other one."

"I am so sorry."

And damn if it didn't sound as if Sebastian honestly meant that.

_________

  
John Hamish Watson did not survive the war by cowering from death and freezing in uncertainty. He was an army surgeon, trained to examine and prioritize the bloodiest and most gruesome of wounds in seconds. He was trained on how to decide who lived and died while everyone around him screamed. He was trained in resourcefulness and sheer adaptability in any unknown situation.

John Watson was a very good doctor and an even better captain, both of which required large amounts of patience and determination to see something through to the end. Dealing with Moriarty would be no different than the front line as long as he approached it as one long slog through a potential minefield. He would step carefully, but swiftly, and pray to God that he got through it in one piece.

His mobile ringing brought him up short and John cringed as he saw Mycroft's number. He took a deep breath and answered it, staring at the metal of the outside door.

"Mycroft."

"You made your train." It wasn't a question, but John knew Mycroft was deducing based on the train sounds in the background rather than prying. "How is you trip so far, Doctor? Anything interesting yet?"

Moriarty running down a train platform jumped to mind, but John forced the laughter down and rubbed his face tiredly. "No, nothing much. Nice restaurants, lots of tourists, Moriarty crying in a bathroom, the usual."

Mycroft was silent for a long moment, the older man's brain trying to determine how best to process the last piece of information, and John wasn't sure if he wanted Sherlock's brother to believe him or not.

"Honestly, John. I'm trying to show interest in your holiday. If you wish to be flippant, please do so in a text. Enjoy yourself and let me know if you need anything."

John ended the call and hung his head in despair, carding hands through his hair before making a decision. He sighed one last time, rolled his shoulders and head, and checked Moriarty's dropped bag for weapons before he stood and made his way into the train car.

Everyone turned to look at him with angry expressions and John wasn't sure why until he got close enough to hear the whimpers coming from the bathroom compartment. John closed his eyes in exasperation but forced himself to stick to the plan he had come up with, at least for the time being.

He wrapped the door with his knuckles, ignoring the eyes boring into his back, and knocked once again when there was no answer.

"I'm fine, really! I just have allergies."

John sighed again. "It's me. Open up."

The whimpers stopped momentarily before picking back up. "I knew it. I knew you would be angry with me! I just wanted to surprise you. Is that so wrong?"

A nearby woman tisked at John in utter disgust.

John gritted his teeth but enveloped himself in patience, injecting as much kindness and cajoling as he could stomach into his voice, projecting it through the door for the passengers' benefit. "Listen, I'm not mad at you. I just wasn't expecting you to show up."

"You didn't even ask if I wanted to come!" Moriarty cried, sobbing out the last three words.

"You never showed any interest! How was I to know you'd want to come?"

"You could have just asked me!"

John sighed again and turned to lean against the bathroom wall. He ran a hand over his face and twisted his head to look at the door. He could see the women closest to him shift in interest and so he forced himself to speak softly. His gentle, loving words made the women beam and nod in approval and John wanted to vomit.

"I'm sorry. You're absolutely right. I should have asked you. I assumed you wouldn't want to come and I didn't take how you'd feel about being left behind into consideration. I'm so sorry, I'm glad you came. Let me in, Jimmy. It's kind of awkward when there are a thousand people glaring at me. I've got your bag."

"There are not a thousand people out there."

There were a few sniffles, not all coming from the bathroom, but the lock disengaged and the door slid open. John stared at the women nearby and they flushed before moving further back in the car, giving the two 'quarreling lovebirds' their privacy. John huffed a forced laugh at Moriarty's last comment, his head shaking in an amusement he didn't feel as he slipped through the doorway into the compact bathroom.

He shut the door, flipped the lock back, and blankly stared at the dull grey of the door's surface for a full minute. Anger coursed in John's veins as he counted the seconds, but he pushed it down alongside the hatred that was threatening to rise. After he was relatively calm, he slowly turned to face the man that had done so much to make his life hell for the past three years.

Moriarty was dry-eyed, not surprisingly, and grinning from where he sat on the cramped sink, his feet minutely swinging in the air like a mischievous little boy. The consultant's grin widened at John's blank expression, white teeth glinting in the bathroom's yellow light. John dropped the duffle and his rucksack on the floor as the train rocked and Moriarty leaned to the side to compensate, his hands gripping the sink's edge.

"Hi, Johnny. Fancy seeing you here!"

Moriarty's voice was chipper, his expression open and friendly, and John scowled and crossed his arms.

"Why are you here?"

Moriarty's smile widened and he threw his arms wide. "To see you of course! You said I could come."

"No," John drawled. "I didn't."

Moriarty frowned. "Yes, you did."

"I think I would remember if I spoke with you, Moriarty."

"Not over the phone, silly!" Moriarty waved a hand. "Sebastian. He told you to go on a holie and you said I could come if I behaved."

John wracked his brain, trying to remember his exact wording, and groaned before rubbing his aching head.

"I said to tell you to stay away from me BECAUSE you can't behave. Not if!"

Moriarty scoffed. "Semantics."

John growled before stilling. "Wait a tic..." He glared at the other male. "They think we're a couple. You told them we're a couple!"

"No I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, okay I did." Moriarty grinned again, pure mischievousness as he shrugged his shoulders the exact same way he had those years ago at the pool. "It was the only way to get what I want."

John did not like the sound of that. "And what is it, exactly, that you want?"

"To spend time with you of course, silly! You proved to be far less ordinary than I originally thought. Poor blind Sherlock, always seeing everything but what's close to home. You even managed to slip through Mycroft's blind spot. Congratulations on that by the way. Lovely work."

The consultant's smile gentled into something resembling normal, and John was suddenly aware of the weight of his service pistol as it pressed against his back.  
"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course not, my dear." Moriarty winked. "Did you like my present? I put a lot of thought into it."

"Which one?" John bit out before he thought better of it.

Moriarty laughed, delighted, and slid off the sink. He pressed himself against John's front and twisted his hands in the doctor's shirt, wrinkling it. He tilted his head and leaned close until his lips were a breath away from John's cheek. "All of them, but the gun-safe in particular."

Moriarty nipped the side of John's jaw and John pushed at the consultant's chest. Moriarty chuckled before his face sobered dangerously. "You threw away the pretty accessory I bought you. Daddy was hurt, Johnny boy."

John knew he was on dangerous footing with the insane genius and decided truthful placation would be the safest route to take with the mercurial male. "I didn't throw it away. I traded it to Sebastian, a man you employ. I can't trust a weapon you give me, Moriarty. But yes, I love the safe."

"My my, but aren't you a box of contradictions? My weapon's not good enough, but you'll take one from my second?" Moriarty tisked and ran his hands up John's arms proprietorially. "Should I be jealous, Johnny? You should know Daddy doesn't like sharing."

"I'm not yours," John bit out.

Moriarty merely smirked and straitened John's collar.

"You're getting off at the next station."

Moriarty scowled and shook his head. "No, I'm not."

"Yes."

"No. I'm going on a holiday with you," the skinnier man said with a determined nod.

John groaned and knocked the back of his skull against the stall wall in frustration, smacking Moriarty's wandering hands away from his waist. "Stop that!"

"But, Johnny, we're trying to fix things! I've been absolutely awful to you the past few years, and the internet says that sex is a vital part of making up."

John pushed at the hands again and grabbed the thin wrists, yanking them up between their chests, squeezing the delicate bones in his larger grasp. He glared at Moriarty and Moriarty grinned lasciviously.

"No," John said simply as he pushed the other male away roughly. "I'm not doing this. You're getting off at the next station."

Moriarty sighed. "Fine, you win. I'll leave. You're so heartless Johnny, doing this to all those innocent people."

"What are you talking about?" John asked, dread filling his stomach.

"The bombs of course! Didn't you know?"

John sighed and closed his eyes wearily. He felt arms wrap around his neck and another nip to his jaw, and John gave up, allowing the touch momentarily.

"What do I need to do?"

Moriarty made a dissatisfied noise and pulled away, running a hand through his hair, disheveling it even further. Frustrated black eyes bore into his but Moriarty forced the building tension in his own body to relax. He resumed his previous position, pressed against John's front with thin arms around the doctor's neck, and smiled indulgently at him.

"Oh John, so self-sacrificing. Always so willing to die for others."

John felt a sharp prick at his throat and removed the safety from his weapon where it was suddenly pushed into Moriarty's side. The consultant's eyes went wide before his face lit up in a brilliant smile, glee shining in the dark gaze. Moriarty slowly removed his arms from around John's neck, and John saw the small metal rod with an end sharpened to a lethal point.

Moriarty made a show of making it disappear by slight of hand before hopping back onto the sink. He crossed his left leg over his right and slid the rod into an invisible sheath that was built into his trainers. The genius grinned at John's incredulous glare and winked.

"Always be prepared, Johnny-boy. A girl never knows when she’ll need to defend herself."

John's glare intensified as Moriarty stood up and invaded his space once more. John pressed the barrel of his weapon into the other's stomach and Moriarty giggled as he looped his hands around the back of John's neck, cupping it. He sighed happily and pressed against the doctor, ignoring the harsh dig of the gun in his belly.

"How about we play a little game, Doctor Watson. If I win, we spend the next week on holiday like any loving couple, the bombs stay, and you have to be nice to me."

John narrowed his eyes. "And if I win?"

"Then we still spend the next week together, but I'll remove all the bombs. That's a big concession Johnny. You know how I love my explosions."

John gritted his teeth as he thought about it, running the genius' wording through his head.

Moriarty realized the loophole the same time John did because he wagged a finger in the doctor’s face. "And you still have to be nice to me! Just like we're a lovey-dovey couple. The only thing that changes are the bombs."

John sighed and replaced his service weapon. "What game?"

Moriarty laughed in gaiety. "Oh, you're so much fun. This will be such fun, you'll see!"

"Moriarty," John pressed. "The game."

The criminal consultant pouted before he bounced on his toes for several seconds. A devious grin lit his face and he tapped a finger on the tip of John's nose.

"Tell me something I'm aware of that neither one of us should know."

"What?" John grimaced. "What kind of game is that?"

"A good one. Fair games are boring."

John scowled at the other before closing his eyes in frustration, letting his mind wander.

"Johnny? Don't fall asleep now."

"Quiet. I'm thinking."

"You're taking an awfully long time."

John opened a single eye in annoyance before closing it again, combing through random information in hopes of finding something that would satisfy the fickle genius clinging to him.

Several long minutes later and John was tense and frustrated. He hadn't come up with anything substantial enough and Moriarty had taken to amusing himself by running his hand through John's hair and clothing, making a mess of them. He pushed a wandering hand out of his hair as he opened his eyes and made Moriarty sulk.

"Geeze, you're a sore loser. Was it something I said?"

John began to tell Moriarty where he could go when an idea stopped him cold. Blue eyes narrowed in consideration, steady hands idly catching hold of Moriarty's perpetually meandering ones, holding them against his chest as he thought rapidly.

"No," Moriarty groaned, catching John's thoughtful expression. "No, no, no. You lost, I won."

"I never conceded," John murmured.

Moriarty tugged at his hands, frowning when John didn't release them. He pursed his lips before he leaned forward to rest his head on John's shoulder, pressing his face into the crook of the doctor's neck. The younger male nuzzled his cold nose against the doctor's pulse that was beating wildly beneath pale skin. He closed his eyes and sighed, seemingly content to remain still while John puzzled out the correct answer to their game. It took a minute but John eventually rolled his shoulders and pushed Moriarty off him. He looked at the criminal consultant, assessing and with a detached sense of cold rage.

"Neither one of them were going to tell me, were they? Not until Sherlock needed his blogger back."

A positively pleased expression crossed Moriarty's face before a scowl took over. He sighed but pulled out his mobile from a back pocket and dialed, giving curt orders to resend 'Executive Order Two' but remain on stand-by to the person who picked up.

"Executive Order Two?" John couldn't help but ask.

"My boom-booms. What a waste. Oh well, at least I finally got to see you outsmart Sherlock."

"I didn't outsmart him," John said, ignoring Moriarty's pet name for his explosives.

"Yes, you did. He went to all this trouble to make you think he was dead and you saw through it in less than ten minutes, given proper motivation. We'll make a proper detective out of you yet," Moriarty said encouragingly. "Now give us a kiss."

"What? No!"

John pushed Moriarty away, making the consultant glower and cross his arms.

"We just went over the rules ten minutes ago! We're a lovey-dovey couple, as disgustingly cute as the rest of them." Moriarty waved his hand at the closed door.

"I'm not kissing you!" John said.

"Then I'm putting the bombs back!" Moriarty stomped a foot petulantly.

John groaned, his head pounding. It was one thing to play along with the madman, pretending to be a couple in front of strangers as long as everyone was safe, but it was completely different to expect John to do so in private as well. John had never been overly demonstrative with his partners. It felt odd to shower the person he was with in romantic actions until that was the only expected reaction. It tended to raise expectations past anything sustainable. He most certainly wouldn't give into a row with a girlfriend and then happily kiss her as if nothing had happened. Especially when she had done something John would continue to find annoying.

Like inviting herself along on my solo holiday, John thought snappishly. He stilled at a muffled sound on the other side of the door, mind whirring quickly, and his lips twitched into a smirk that made the younger male shift uncomfortably.

"While I find that expression highly attractive, I doubt I'm supposed to like it when it's directed at me."

"Normal couple, huh?" The army doctor asked casually.

"Yes," Moriarty said slowly, savvy enough to realize when John was plotting.

"Have you ever been in a normal relationship? One where you weren't using the other person to get at someone else?"

Moriarty scowled and crossed his arms. "I don't see how that's relevant."

John felt his smirk deepen, noting in the back of his mind how it made Moriarty fidget, and rested back against the wall, his body loose and relaxed. He opened his arms and motioned for the other male to come closer. Moriarty was suspicious of the sudden change in demeanor, but John softened his expression into a smile and waited patiently. A minute passed in intense internal debate but Moriarty's self-preservation crumbled at the possibility of something exciting happening and he stepped into the doctor's space, a challenging glimmer in black eyes as their chests pressed together.

John closed his arms around the genius and stared at him fondly, earning a near-invisible blush in return. Moriarty twitched in restlessness but John stayed still and waited the other out. After several moments, the consultant huffed and forced himself to relax. John shifted his grip to around Moriarty's waist and pulled the criminal closer, tipping the man's head back with a finger under the chin to look him in the eye.

"Jim," John said softly, making Moriarty practically vibrate in anticipation. "I forgive you for inviting yourself along on my holiday."

He could practically see Moriarty's mind working, predicting the numerous outcomes possible and the likely actions on the genius' part to assure the most favorable one. He seemed so similar to Sherlock just then that John felt his anger fade a little, enough to see him through the next week and a half as long as Moriarty behaved himself.

John nudged the thinking criminal consultant back two steps and picked all three of their bags up, John's rucksack and Moriarty's matching skull backpack and duffle-bag that John was sure were Gucci, and unlocked the door.

"That's it?" Moriarty asked, genuinely confused. "No kiss?"

"Yep." John nodded. "I'm going to try to make this work, but I'm still angry at you. I'm not going to pretend that everything is suddenly okay. You hurt me, Jim. Don't expect me to just kiss you and make everything better."

Moriarty frowned in confusion but perked his ears at the subtle shuffling of feet that John had heard earlier. He smiled at John in appreciation before expertly layering his mask onto his face. Jim, the cheating boyfriend who thought his relationship was worth saving. Moriarty bit his lip and lowered his gaze, long eyelashes dipping down to almost sweep against pale cheekbone. He worried his hands and shuffled from foot to foot.

"I am sorry, you know," Jim said in a subdued voice, throwing it so the eavesdroppers heard.

John sighed. "I know you are, Jim, but I don't think you know what you're sorry for."

Moriarty flashed through the mask for a moment, sharp edges of contemplation before Jim worried his lip in discomfort. "I did a lot of things I know I shouldn't be proud of."

"No, you shouldn't be. But do you know what your problem is?" John pressed, letting instinct drive his words. "You think that no one can understand you, that they can't get to you on the island you've built for yourself."

Moriarty was back, the mask completely gone and in its stead only blankness, as if that was the genius' default emotion. John took a step towards Moriarty and handed the duffel bag over, hesitating to release it when long fingers brushed against his.

"I'm not as smart as you, Jim, I know that," John said with all seriousness. "But I'm a lot smarter than what people give me credit for, and I understand a lot more than you think I do."

Something sparked behind Moriarty's eyes, but John shook his head and pressed on. "When you decide to let someone in a little, you know where to find me."

John turned to leave but stopped at an iron grip on his wrist. He looked over his shoulder to stare into vacant, black eyes, flickering with the deductions that had to be nearly constantly processing in the mind behind them. Moriarty's grip tightened, squeezing until John knew there would be a bruise there later, but neither man said a word. Moriarty let go and turned to face the mirror, his face still void of expression. John sighed and reached for the door handle. Foot steps scurried back to seats, but John heard the other man's impassive words clearly enough over the noise.

"No one ever gets to me, Doctor."

John stared at the door for a long moment before sliding it open, turning to glance at Moriarty once more before stepping into the main car.

"You ever stop to think that's the problem?"

  
____________________________________

  
The other passengers let John be, and he was glad for the chance to collect his composure. He sat in the front of the car across from the bathroom, in plain view from the doorway. If Moriarty was anything like Sherlock, the criminal genius liked to control his environment as much as possible. He'd want to keep John close but as far away from others as social protocol allowed. The people in the car believed that John and Jim were fighting, but trying to work it out. They'd give the two of them space, which was what John was hoping for. He remembered how annoyed and waspish Sherlock had been whenever he was forced to deal with commoners for extended periods of time.

John pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Sebastian. "Not dead, did try to kill me though, check back later."

The encounter with Moriarty left him feeling off-kilter, worn out and tired in ways he hadn't since right before he gave up hoping Sherlock had somehow survived the fall. Dealing with so many emotions at once was draining, and John really did sometimes hate how ridiculously easy it was for him to feel. The army had given him the tools necessary to control his natural empathy to some degree, but even though he didn't usually allow his emotions to rule him, it didn't mean he could turn them off. The aftermath of Sherlock's death was proof of that.

Well, Sherlock's supposed death that was. John scowled as he stared out the window, watching the scenery.

John pushed Sherlock out of his mind, refusing to contemplate the detective's survival. If he gave in and thought about it, John knew he wouldn't be able to stop the rage that would bubble up and explode. John's temper was not a pretty thing, and he refused to inflict that on any nearby innocent. It would be difficult but John would forget about Sherlock for the next week and a half and enjoy his holiday in the country.

Even if he did have to spend it with Moriarty.

John looked up as Moriarty exited the bathroom, his face and eyes red, an effect achieved by vigorous scrubbing with hot water, and the other hesitated when he caught John's eye. He slowly approached John, insecurity in every line of his body, and John was once again reminded of how good an actor the consultant was. Jim-the-boyfriend stopped beside John's row, glanced down at the army rucksack and backpack in the seat beside John and then away to other nearby open spaces, his hand smoothing his tee shirt nervously.

The doctor watched him for another moment before he stood and stored his and Jim's bag in the overhead compartment. He retook his seat and looked at Jim with a raised eyebrow, silently motioning to the vacant space beside him. Jim quickly sat down and John turned his attention back to the window, observing Jim's reflection from the corner of his eye.

While they didn't speak or interact much, John couldn't help but notice that Moriarty's mask slipped in the silence. He was still, not fidgeting in his seat and his stare was distant and just a little bit hollow. It was unnerving when compared to the grinning, plotting genius he had seen in the bathroom only a half-hour ago.

A little while before they reached their destination, John felt the weight of Moriarty's head as it rolled onto his shoulder, and he carefully craned his head down to see the younger man asleep in the seat beside him. His eyes were closed and his head rested in the crease between the backrest and John's shoulder, his mouth open slightly as quiet huffs of breath left his mouth.

It was so ordinary a thing to do, falling asleep on someone's shoulder, that it made the doctor stop and really examine the man next to him. While John knew that Moriarty was no where near as innocent or helpless as he portrayed himself to be - his slumbering on John most likely premeditated - he also realized that the man was perfectly capable of controlling himself where it mattered. He was just as easily destructive as Sherlock, the manic behavior and millions of pounds of damage left in the wake of his 'games' only proved it. In this moment though, John could easily understand why Molly and Kitty Riley fell for him.

Moments of quiet like this were going to be rare for the next few days, John knew. Moriarty was going to do everything he could to get a response from John, even if it was anger or frustration. So while he had the time, John had to take it and build his defenses. He was on the roof but not at the ledge yet, and John had to get loose of the grip pulling him there before his feet hit air and he dropped.

But in order to do that, he had to understand Moriarty's motives, and it wasn't as if he could inquire and get a straight answer. So John leaned his head back and closed his own eyes, letting the rocking of the train calm his stormy mind.

Moriarty was neither psychopath nor a sociopath, despite all evidence provided up to that point in time, just immoral. John was surprised to find he believed that with the same conviction that he believed the same about Sherlock. But unlike Sherlock, the criminal consultant didn't have the luxury of third-party consciences like John Watson and Greg Lestrade. Sherlock didn't bother with understanding most humans because he had people like John following him around like ducklings, pulling him back from going that one step too far.

The criminal consultant didn't have that and so he learned those boundaries, what made average ordinary people tick and think and work. He learned what made people happy and sad, why they would steal or kill. Moriarty knew how to be human, and that made him more dangerous than Sherlock Holmes could ever be. Moriarty was controlling himself right now, allowing John to lead and overstep boundaries, because it got John to go along with his plans. Plans within plans that spun different webs with the same center, each thread leading back to the single core every time.

Sherlock.

Everything seemed to revolve around Sherlock Holmes for Moriarty. For John as well it would seem.

Sherlock, who John- while happy he was alive- was angry at for not trusting him with the truth. Sherlock, who let John go on believing he was dead. Sherlock, who trusted that Mycroft could protect John.

John sighed and opened his eyes, thinking he finally understood what game Moriarty was playing at and not happy about it in the least. Moriarty knew Sherlock was alive, understood the detective's reasoning for jumping, and did the logical thing by following the conclusion to its end.

Anyone who knew Sherlock knew John was his weakness - his heart Moriarty had mocked at the pool. John was the one who felt so Sherlock wouldn't have to. Moriarty understood far too well how people worked, even ones like Sherlock and Mycroft. Something happened in the months John was consumed with grieving that caused Moriarty to stop and re-prioritize, to change his end game with Sherlock. Because it was the only thing that made sense with the facts provided.

Moriarty wasn't trying to burn Sherlock's heart out any more.

He was trying to steal it.

_______________

When the tour description used the word 'inn', John thought a quaint bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere with small rooms and a smaller budget. He did not expect this.

"Oh my God, this is perfect!"

Neither had Moriarty apparently.

The minute the van pulled to a stop, Moriarty was shoving John and Ben aside, scrabbling for the door handle with a single-minded determination that made Lucy and Carla laugh. Moriarty didn't seem to mind, ignoring them in favor of hopping out and twirling around in a fast circle, his arms wide-spread.

"Johnny, you've got to see this! We're at the Dart Marina Spa! A spa!"

Jim's voice rose in pitch towards the end and John groaned in pain. Mark and Charles shot him sympathetic looks, obviously grateful their own girlfriends weren't quite as excited as Jim. Sandra whistled as she stepped down onto the ground and quickly leapt aside as Jim flung himself back inside the van, grabbed on to John's arm and physically hauled him out of the vehicle. John shouted his surprise, barely hearing the startled-Ben's comment about Jim being stronger than he looked.

"A spa, Johnny! We're staying at a spa? I thought we'd be sleeping in a tent or under a rock. The Dart Marina!" Jim whirled around again before slipping his arm through John's, his hand curling around bicep. "A spa!"

"You keep repeating that like it means something," John said flatly, prying at the hand.

Jim shot him a nasty look before he gazed dreamily up at the large hotel. He squeezed the arm he was holding. "I've been wanting a Quartz Facial for weeks! And I absolutely need a mani pedi. They give great mani pedis here."

"You've been here before?" Susan asked, pulling her bag from the back of the van.

"Mmhm," Jim nodded, turning to smile goofily at her. "The best mani pedis ever. And the food! It's surprisingly good for what you pay."

Brandon looked at Jim sideways. "The cheapest plate is £50."

"Don't bother," John shot towards the tour-guide in a weary voice, as if he'd made and lost a similar argument before. "He functions on a fundamentally different level than us normal, sane people."

"Stop exaggerating," Jim complained.

"I'm not the one with Gucci bags and an Armani shirt."

Jim made a sound of disgust and huffed in John's direction. "Shows what you know. The bags are McQueen and it's my jeans that are Armani."

John waited.

"The shirt is Westwood."

"Of course. My apologies for being an uncouth plebeian," the doctor said with a straight face.

Jim patted John's arm. "It's alright. I knew you were fashion-challenged going into it."

"Hey! There is nothing wrong with my jumpers."

"Which is reason enough why you're not allowed to buy me clothes for my birthday or Christmas. Well, not ever really."

Lucy and Ben snickered in the back and John threw them a glare over his shoulder.

"I thought Westwood was an actor. Since when does he make clothes?" Charles asked innocently.

Jim whipped his head around to stare at Charles in stark horror, his face morphing into a frightening scowl that had John quickly slapping his hand over the genius' mouth. John shook his head at Charles violently, his eyes wide in panic. Jim made angry muffled sounds behind John's hand, teeth working to get a better angle to bite, and John turned his pleading gaze on to the livid man.

"He didn't mean it, Jim," John said hurriedly, trying to stop the vitriol rant he knew was coming. "He's just a stupid man who can't tell the difference between taupe and camel. Please, let him live to see the error of his ways."

The group laughed, but John waited until Jim nodded, his eyes still narrowed, before removing his hand.

"Camel and taupe are arguably the same thing, but I see your point," Jim said calmly. He pointed a finger at Charles. "Listen caveman. Eastwood, actor. Westwood, goddess."

Veronica nodded her whole-hearted agreement, seeming to earn Jim's attention and immediate friendship. Jim detached himself from John and sauntered over to the brunette, a wide smile spreading across his face as the two began to excitedly jabber away in a language many of the other group members had no hope or want of understanding. The two began walking towards the hotel, leaving the rest of the group behind in stunned silence.

John stared after them, trying to determine if Jim actually liked Veronica or if he was simply humoring her because she didn't seem to be as fashionably-ignorant as everyone else around him. It didn't really matter though. As long as Moriarty didn't kill or maim anyone, the criminal could babble away about whatever he wanted with Veronica.

"Damn it!" Mark swore.

The group turned towards Mark who was staring into the back of the van at Veronica's many bags miserably. John walked over, reached around him, and easily lifted the three bags he was responsible for with one hand. He gave the younger man a commiserating pat on the shoulder before strolling after the gabbing couple, chuckling at Mark's hollered, "Real nice, mate!"

_____________________

Jim had indeed been to the Dart Marina before, because the manager was practically tripping over herself as she rushed to upgrade his room.

"Mister Monaghan, I didn't realize you were coming! I am so very sorry but-" she said hurriedly, her fingers zooming across the computer's keyboard. "-Number One is officially booked. I can fit you into an apartment or a Britannia room though, no extra charge."

Jim waved a hand and smiled warmly. "It's perfectly alright, Cynthia. I know this was short notice. John and I would love one of your new Britannia rooms. I've heard wonderful things about them."

"Of course!" Cynthia stuttered, glancing at John in slight confusion before returning her focus to the screen. "I'll book you into one right away."

The woman's fingers moved faster, making Veronica raise an eyebrow at Jim in admiration. John simply felt bad for her. The rest of the group was almost to the front door, their laughter loud and friendly. Jim glanced at the approaching people and leaned on the desk, tapping Cynthia's hand. Cynthia looked up, her expression flustered.

"Cynthia, I was hoping you could help me out a bit. See, my Johnny and I are on a group tour. We're walking from Dartmoor to Exmoor, seeing the sights you see, and while Johnny finds the countryside fascinating -what with the bugs and dirt and all- I'm afraid Veronica and I require maintenance. I was hoping a trip to the spa and a nice dinner out on the patio for the entire group could shore us up for the great outdoors. What do you say? I'd certainly cover the costs."

Cynthia bit her lip, pulling up the rosters for the spa and restaurant, comparing open slots before nodding resolutely. She smiled at Jim and rapidly swiped two blank cards through the key card machine, handing them to Jim.

"Number 24," She said. "Second floor and has a view of the river. It was originally booked for tomorrow, but I shifted them to another empty Britannia. I'll rearrange the spa appointments and call in a couple extras to handle the overflow. I'll have three hours blocked for your group before dinner and another four hours tomorrow evening as well. Unfortunately, I can't get you onto the patio. A wedding party booked it for their rehearsal dinner weeks ago. I can put you on the west side of the house with a sunset over the marina."

Jim nodded magnanimously. "That would be splendid! Thank you so much, Cynthia. As always, it's a pleasure visiting."

Cynthia beamed and fiddled with her hair, a blush stealing across her cheeks, making John roll his eyes. Jim glanced away from her and caught the movement, copying it as he slid himself under John's arm, wriggling determinedly until it was secure about his waist. He dropped his head onto John's shoulder and wrapped both his arms around John's waist in return. Cynthia's flush deepened as she glanced from Jim to John, turning to Veronica with a strained smile.

"And how can I assist you?"

Later, after the group had their hotel keys and were walking to their rooms, Veronica randomly turned to Jim with a deadpan expression.

"And here I thought you were one of the gayest gays I had ever seen."

The entire group ground to a halt at her words, turning to stare at her with the most blatant what-the-fuck expressions John had ever seen. Mark grabbed Veronica's hand and pulled her to him, looking at John in pained embarrassment. John, not knowing the specifics about his "boyfriend" kept quiet and shrugged. If Moriarty went to the trouble of using a long standing false identity to play the part of gay boyfriend, John didn't want to upset the man by giving contradictory information.

Jim laughed good naturedly, winking at the blunt female.

"I like women well enough," Jim said. "But at the end of the day, I prefer a nice, hard-"

"Alright then!" John cut in, a deep flush spreading over his face.

Jim gave John an evil grin and patted John's arm. "Massage, Johnny. I was going to say massage."

Tension successfully dissipated, they made it to their rooms without further incident. They oohed and ahhed at the double bedded suites, checked out the closets and childishly bounced on the mattresses. John was in Ben's doorway, watching the younger man excitedly pump his fist in the air, when he noticed Jim stroll past the open door towards the nearby stairs. John frowned before he remembered who he'd be sharing a room with and looked at the key card in his hands with trepidation.

"What's up?" Ben asked.

"I'd rather not stay in the same room as him," John said, not bothering to come up with a lie.

Ben frowned and motioned John to shut the door. He sat on the far bed, crossed his legs, and leaned his elbows on his knees. John leaned against the wall by the door, a little uneasy with the look on the other male's face.

"It's not just a simple fight, is it?" Ben asked.

John laughed, bitterness invading the sound against his will. "No."

Ben winced. "That bad?"

"He's..." John stopped himself before he said something he'd regret.

"He's what?"

The doctor shook his head. "He's just impossible."

"It can't be that bad."

"Oh, it is." John murmured. He shrugged and looked out a window. "Jim's intense. He latches onto something and that's it. Nothing you say or do stops him from doing it. Even if it hurts everyone around him."

Ben was quiet, listening to John's words with severity. It made John want to open up, to tell someone something about what he was going through, how he felt about being trapped in this situation.

"He's obsessed with my friend, and he's only wasting breath on me because it's a way to get to him."

"You're saying he's only dating you to get closer to your friend?" Ben's voice was filled with disapproval and a little bit of anger on John's behalf.

John gave him a lopsided smile and shrugged. "I'm used to it by now. Sher... Sherman tends to draw everyone's attention, without even meaning to some of the time."

"Your friend knows Jim likes him?"

The older man laughed again, shaking his head. "Oh yeah. If Sherman was interested in anyone, Jim would be the most obvious choice. He's self-destructive like that."

"But it sounds like he isn't. Interested that is."

"No." John shook his head. "He's too much a workaholic to give a relationship a chance."

"Jim know that?"

"Yep. Hasn't stopped him from provoking Sherman any chance he gets though. They don't really like each other, but they play a big part in keeping the other one functioning."

"So he can't have your friend, so he might as well have the closest thing to him he can get," Ben finished.

It was awkward, hearing a stranger put it so bluntly, but it didn't make it any less true.

John was the closest thing to Sherlock Moriarty could get right now. Mrs. Hudson was lovely, and Sherlock was fond of her, but he never really let her in. The same for Greg, and Molly was right out unless she could serve a purpose.

And while Mycroft may love his brother, enough to help him fake his own death and hide it from John, the same was not said for Sherlock. The two brothers had a mile-wide chasm between them, and John doubted there would ever be any other bridge connecting them besides John himself.

So John probably was the one person that actually meant something to the consultant detective, at least enough to warrant Moriarty's undivided attention for any extended period of time. Jim could entertain himself at the same time he played his next move, readying himself two steps ahead for when Sherlock came back.

"Jim doesn't seem the outdoorsy type."

It was such an understatement that John couldn't help but laugh once again, his head shaking with his mirth. "Outdoorsy is the last thing I would ever use to describe him. The man dresses for a week-long walk in Armani jeans and a Westwood tee shirt."

"So why is he here?"

John shrugged a shoulder. "He says he wants to fix things."

"You don't believe him."

It wasn't a question.

"I'm not what he wants. Jim wants Sherman, even though he knows perfectly well it would be nothing less than a disaster, and damn anyone who gets in his way."

The two men were quiet after John's resentment-filled confession, John running out of steam and Ben simply not knowing what to say. They remained there for several minutes, the younger man laying back on his bed and John crossing over to the other window on the far side of the room to stare onto the parking lot.

"I think you're not seeing everything there is to see."

John furrowed his brows and turned his head to look at Ben as he sat up.

Ben cracked his knuckles before shrugging his shoulders. "He doesn't seem the type to find this walk fun, at all, but he's here. I'm just saying, John, he may be interested in your friend but this seems like overkill just to keep a standby happy."

  
_______________

  
John took a deep breath and swiped his key card through the reader, watching the red light blink green before he pushed the door open slowly.

"I don't care what he thinks the job's worth! You tell him thirty thousand and not a pound more. And he better get it done on time, Sebastian, or we'll just see what he thinks when he doesn't have a fucking head."

John froze in the entrance hallway, hearing but not seeing the irate Moriarty that was further in the room. He held his breath and quietly shut the door, fingers pressing against the frame to soften the final snick of the latch bolt. The doctor stayed where he was, already regretting leaving Ben's room, and heard a deep growl emanating from around the corner.

"I don't pay you to think, Sebastian. I pay you to fucking get things done! What good are you if you can't oversee a simple operation?"

Steps sounded across the carpet as Moriarty moved about angrily, soft but forceful from annoyance. John leaned against the door, one hand on the handle and the other on his gun pressed to his lower-back just in case. The criminal consultant growled but took a deep breath, letting it out in one long exhale. When he next spoke, it was with much less rage and hostility.

"Sebastian, just get it done. If he isn't up to it cut him loose and find someone who is. This is non-negotiable."

A soft beep signaled the end of Moriarty's call but John stayed where he was, debating his options.

"Stop hovering. It's an annoying habit and I hate it."

John winced. Moriarty was in a foul mood and John wasn't sure if it would be better if he left or not. He didn't want to be anywhere near the madman in the state he appeared to be in, but John didn't want to leave him unsupervised where he could hurt people either.

Tired of waiting for John to move, Moriarty snarled and walked into view. His hair was smoothed down slightly, his shirt wrinkled on the bottom left-hand side, and the anger was barely leashed behind a thin wall of control. The sight made John grip his service weapon tighter, his eyes tracking the minute shifts in the other's stance, ready to defend himself the moment he needed to.

Moriarty's eyes slid over John's body in one quick motion, faster than Sherlock's even, before narrowing in thought. John remained still and calm, his breathing steady and even, his thumb hovering over the safety.

"Oh, don't do that," the unstable genius complained waspishly with a wave of his hand. "It's no fun when you're in panic mode."

John raised an eyebrow. "I'm not panicking," he said, staring at the other passively.

"Which is why you're no fun, you don't ever react."

John shrugged, waiting for the situation to defuse itself. The consultant huffed at John's continued silence and rolled his shoulders and neck, releasing the fury-fueled tension in his body. He turned away from John and disappeared out of view, leaving John standing alone in the entrance-way with his weapon and thoughts.

He slowly removed his hands from the doorknob and gun and padded down the hallway and into the open space of the room. He quickly took in the posh decorations throughout and the lavish king-sized bed and it's multitude of pillows pressed against the wall along-side the door. Windows lined the wall running parallel to the foot of the bed, the tree-lined river stretching out below with boats bobbing in the pontoon berths. A desk was situated along the far wall that stood by the bathroom door, dark wood gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, and had a small notebook computer open on its surface.

Moriarty crossed to the desk and shut the notebook with a finger, slipping it into the desk drawer. He rolled his shoulders once more before turning to face John, sitting on the desktop to face the doctor. The anger was gone, leaving an edgy mirth behind in its stead. The doctor kept the width of the bed between them, but moved to stand by the windows.

"So what do you think, Johnny-Boy? Not quite Tesco, but I'm sure you'll make due somehow."

The voice was pleasant enough, spoken with just the right amount of joking to convince most that it was a harmless comment, one aimed at someone not used to luxury to settle them. But John knew well enough to listen to the words and not the tone. Moriarty made a very comfortable living lying to people. Lying was as second nature to him as breathing but, from the little experience John had, John knew the man tended to lie with inflection, not the actual words spoken.

Moriarty's words were mean, meant to cut and dig into a festering wound of inferiority that only those who knew poverty bore. John was unsure of how Moriarty knew about his childhood but he did know Moriarty was trying to use it to his advantage, to gain back the control he had lost on the train. Unfortunately for the criminal consultant, John had long since made peace with what his father and his drinking had done to the family. John slid his gaze over to Moriarty and held the other man's stare for a long moment, letting him see the lack of anger or shame.

"Stop it," he said simply; settled and unstressed, bored mostly.

Moriarty frowned, undoubtedly expecting a different reaction than the one he received. He opened his mouth to speak, most likely another insult, but the ringing of 'Rule Britannia' from John's phone stopped him with a quirk of his lips.

John pulled his phone from his pocket and answered it. "Hello Mycroft."

"John. You're off the train then?"

"You know I am."

"How are the conditions at the hotel?"

John walked over to the bed, idly running his fingers up the length of the soft linen comforter until he reached the head. He was aware of the black eyes that tracked his movements, how they followed the shallow trail in the soft wool left behind by callused digits. He caressed the top pillow on his side of the bed and locked eyes with Moriarty.

"It's absolutely lovely. Everything about the place is perfect."

"I'm pleased to hear that. And your room?"

John turned to look out the window. "I've been upgraded. It turns out that the group member I'm rooming with is a valued client. He's been doing nothing but talk about the spa from the moment we arrived."

Mycroft chuckled, and John felt Moriarty's calculating stare keenly.

"I should have done this months ago. Maybe I won't wait so long next time."

"Next time?" Mycroft asked, sounding a little surprised. "I thought you were there for the walking."

John smiled and sat sideways on the edge of the bed, his hands running along the top of the comforter in wide-sweeping arcs. "I am, but this is nice too. Maybe I'll save up for a nice long stay in a room just like this. Sleep the days away."

Mycroft hummed, a thoughtful sound that reminded John of Sherlock when John said something particularly insightful. It sent a wave of nostalgia through the doctor, and John's smile softened. He noticed Moriarty shift from the corner of his vision, but kept his eyes on the river.

"You could always accompany me when I travel on holiday next."

There was a suddenly awkward silence on the other end of the phone and John chuckled.

"Relax, Mycroft." John rested his hand on his thigh. "I knew what you meant."

"Even so, I did not mean for it to sound as it did. I was in no way propositioning you."

"Calm down. You spend entirely too much of your time measuring your words, even when you don't have to."

John knew his words met their mark, for both geniuses he was communicating with, when Mycroft hummed again and Moriarty rolled his head back to stare at John thoughtfully from under eyelashes.

"Listen," John started. "If you can try to do something for me, I'll think about tagging along."

Moriarty narrowed his eyes.

"Yes?" Mycroft asked cautiously.

"I want you to try to stop being so careful with me. I'm not some porcelain doll that will break if handled wrong. I'm better now. You walking on eggshells around me is frustrating and, frankly, a little insulting."

Mycroft was quiet for a short pause before he spoke. "I will attempt to do so. I do still worry about you though."

"I know, but it feels like I'm in a box."

"Alright. If there's nothing else?"

John idly thought of Mycroft watching him sink to suicidal depths over his friend's death, all the while knowing he could end it at any time, and lying to his face about it. He thought of Moriarty, alive and well and not even fifteen feet away with machinations that would quite possibly be the end of John Watson. John thought of Sherlock, hiding away and doing whatever stupidly selfless thing he was doing, leaving John behind to suffer from normal life like a cancer victim.

He thought of all that before smiling idly. "No, that's it. Bye, Mycroft."

"Goodbye, John."

John ended the call and set his phone on the nightstand. The pillows behind him rolled a little from the action and he straightened them before laying down, flipping his shoes off as his head sank into the soft surface beneath it. He sighed in pleasure and closed his eyes, listening to Moriarty grind his teeth in annoyance at being ignored.

"Well, wasn't that sweet? Iceman has himself a girlfriend."

John felt an instinctive glare rise, but forced it behind a calm mask of indifference. He kept his eyes closed and crossed his hands over his chest, letting a little smile cross his lips.

"Jealous, Jim?"

The prod had an instantaneous, violent effect.

Moriarty lunged over the far side of the bed, landing sideways on John. The brunette swung his leg over John's body the same time his hands found John's throat, and he pushed down and forward, cutting off air and crushing the windpipe within an iron-grip. An ugly sneer twisted the criminal consultant's face as John clawed at the appendages strangling him and tried to buck the figure off with his hips.

"Let's get something straight, Watson," Moriarty hissed, leaning down to add pressure onto John's throat. "Don't think for one second that you matter. You're only breathing because I'm letting you!"

Moriarty let go when John's eyes rolled back in his head and his struggles dropped off. John coughed, rasping sounds echoing through the room as Moriarty sneered in disgust. As the genius shifted his weight to swing his body off John's, John surged upwards, a flat palm into Moriarty's stomach propelling him up and off John, knocking him sideways onto his back. John rolled with the motion, grabbing the startled criminal's wrists in his own larger hands and locked the other's kicking legs in between his before the two bodies rolled to a stop on the other side of the bed.

Moriarty bucked and shouted, his voice guttural in his fury, but John ignored it as he used his energy and strength to pin the writhing man beneath him. He forced Moriarty's legs straight, having to press his body completely against that of the criminal consultant's. The struggle lasted for minutes on end as both men refused to yield before Moriarty went limp.

The slighter man gasped harshly, exertion seeming to leave him weak and unable to continue his fight but John knew better and held on, grinding the wrists in his hands together as he worked his legs further between and around Moriarty's, pressing their chests together as he continued to cough. Moriarty snarled and lunged upwards, energy miraculously restored, and tried to flip them over. John was ready though and used his weight as leverage to force the smaller man under him deeper into the mattress, holding him there until Moriarty was genuinely too exhausted to fight back.

"Are you done?" John asked, his voice hoarse from Moriarty's attempted-strangulation.

Moriarty screamed his frustration into John's face and slammed the back of his head repeatedly against the mattress. He continued to buck halfheartedly and jerk at the hands holding his wrists with an enraged growl, white teeth flashing in threat. After several further minutes of futile struggles, Moriarty submitted and went limp beneath John's body, glaring up at the army captain with deep, black pools of discontentment.

"Are you done?" John repeated.

The criminal consultant glowered.

John shook his head and matched the other's dirty look with his own. "You know I can hold you here as long as I need to. Are you done?"

Moriarty ground his teeth but gave a terse nod. John eased his hold, half-expecting the genius to lunge up the few inches that separated their faces and smash his forehead against John's. It didn't happen, and John untangled his legs from Moriarty in careful movements as he tracked the twitches of the arms he was still grasping loosely.

"You-" John started as he rose up onto his knees over the slighter male "-are completely mad."

Something changed in Moriarty's expression, the blanket insanity lessening and becoming thoughtful for a flash of a second before he started laughing. "You're just getting that now?"

John frowned at the mimicking tone of voice, knowing there was an inside joke he wasn't aware of.

The laughter calmed into giggles as Moriarty shifted his shoulders. He pushed them up and then out, getting comfortable on the mattress, his body still stretched out under the doctor's, and he rolled his head to the side. He smiled at John sweetly as he flexed his still bound arms experimentally.

"You know, I do believe Sherlock said the same thing to me once."

"That you're mad?"

Moriarty nodded. "But then he jumped, so I didn't really take it to heart."

Gut-churning anger washed through John at the criminal's words, but John forced himself to remember that Sherlock was alive and let the emotion fade. That seemed to surprise Moriarty again because his manicured-brows furrowed thoughtfully. The lingering rage and danger drained from the man and left him looking harmless once more.

"You know," The Irish brogue was playful as its owner stretched himself like a giant cat, lifting his hips in a blatant overture. "You holding me down like this, someone might get the wrong impression."

John let go of Moriarty like he was burnt. The genius copied John's earlier action and used his hand to knock John onto his back. The lithe figure rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled the foot of space that separated their bodies to straddle a winded-John's middle. He looked down at John with a pleased smirk and ran his hands up John's chest, John's shirt riding up with the smooth motion to expose pale skin, and rested them over John's pectoral muscles.

"Not that it wouldn't be a welcomed impression," Moriarty said teasingly as he slid his ass back to rest against John's bent thighs.

"No." The answer was immediate and firm.

Moriarty pouted. "Why are you being so stubborn?"

The doctor looked at Moriarty plainly before nudging at the legs on either side of his hips. "Off."

A suffering sigh was the only response as Moriarty rolled off John, landing beside the army surgeon with an 'oomph' and a bounce. Long fingers tangled in John's shirt and brown hair tickled John's nose when Moriarty placed his head on John's shoulder. The motion made the blond stare incredulously at the other male.

"What?" Moriarty mumbled, his mouth stretching in a yawn.

"You just tried to kill me, and now you expect me to let you use me as a pillow?"

"I knew exactly how long and hard to hold before lack of oxygen caused death."

"That is not comforting in the least," John mumbled before shrugging his shoulder rapidly. "Get off."

"No."

"Yes. If you've forgotten, you booked the spa. You have about a half-hour before its your turn."

Moriarty grumbled but removed himself off of the older man, running a hand through his ruined hair. "I do need a manicure, and my face is a little dry."

"Well, there you go. Off you trot."

The genius looked at John curiously.

"What?" John asked, wary of the look.

"You just accused me of attempted murder."

"And?"

"Don't ordinary people tend to dwell on that sort of thing?"

John stood and padded over to his bag, pulling the flap open to grab a shirt. He spoke over his shoulder and glanced at Moriarty as he switched out the wrinkled shirt with the new one, his voice muffled as he tugged the collar over his head. "I have a feeling that if you thought I was ordinary, Jim, you wouldn't be bothering with me."

Moriarty hummed in agreement and rolled off his side of the bed. He opened the closet door and pulled out a button-down and jeans and quickly stripped, his back presented to John. Compact muscles rippled as he gripped his tee-shirt by the hem and lifted it, revealing faint scarring that John instantly recognized. It was difficult for the doctor to keep his silence at the proof of torture, but he managed by biting his tongue.

John watched as Moriarty undid his jeans and slowly worked the tight material off his body. The blond surgeon looked away when he belatedly realized just why there was a bit too much flesh coming into view, and busied himself with tidying his rucksack. When he heard zipping from the new pair of denim, he turned to the bed and grabbed his shoes. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and tugged them on, turning his body so he could see the other male.

Moriarty turned and picked up the button-down from where he tossed it onto the bed. The casualness that he shrugged it on with struck John as completely and oddly normal, and the doctor was reminded of the fact that, as destructive and arguably evil as Jim Moriarty was, the criminal mastermind was as much a human as the next person.

He watched nimble fingers do up the buttons quickly and efficiently. When done, the owner of said-shirt turned to check his appearance in the near-by floor length mirror resting against the wall, leaving him in profile. His sharp nose and sharper jaw-line caught in the gleaming afternoon sunlight that reflected off the surface he was gazing into. The powder-blue shirt softened the natural harshness that he seemed to exude when he wasn't bothering to contain or hide it, leaving him looking softer and even a bit fragile, like he had when he first presented himself to Sherlock and John at Bart's.

As Moriarty smoothed out a barely visible wrinkle and without looking at John, he said, "Like what you see, Johnny?"

The man wasn't baiting him, John realized after a brief hesitation. Instead, he seemed to be genuinely curious about John's attention. John remained quiet for a moment longer before standing, grabbing the key card before he headed for the door.

"They won't know what slit their throats."

 

_______________

 

The women -plus Jim- made use of the spa while the men made use of the bar, ordering drinks before heading outside to walk along the river. They discussed the boats and sights, and Brandon explained what they were going to see in the area the next day. Overall, it was a peaceful few hours for John. He was grateful for the time and space he could put between himself and Moriarty.

Fifteen minutes before dinner, the group returned to the hotel and headed for their respective rooms to change into the more formal attire they had been instructed to bring with them when they registered for the tour. John stopped by the front desk to pick up shoe polish and a rag and then took the stairs to his suite. He laid out the outfit he had purchased last minute, after deciding to invest money in a new suit.

The trousers were dark blue, the vest's front a matching shade with it's back being the same white of his dress shirt. John had left the jacket behind. It would have been too much trouble airing it out just to stuff it back into his rucksack after only needing it once, maybe twice.

John ran his fingers over the soft linen of his dress shirt as he looked to where Moriarty's laptop sat hiding in the desk drawer. The temptation to pry was strong, but John stilled when he reminded himself of who owned the thing. It wasn't all that difficult a thing to do, looking away from the desk and back to his suit, not with knowing Sherlock was alive and playing his own game.

John was growing sick of games.

He casually shrugged off his shirt and shucked his jeans before carefully sliding the skinny-legged trousers on. They were tighter than he was comfortable with, clinging to his ass in places he wasn't used to, but the salesclerk had been emphatic that that was the new style. She promised the color brought out the blue of his eyes. Though how she knew his eye color without looking away from his bum, John didn't know.

The army doctor pulled on the slightly wrinkled shirt- "No, it doesn't need to be ironed. It's meant to be that way, sir." - and slipped the small white buttons through their matching holes before doing the same for the four on each of his forearms. He pulled the cuff links he purchased on a whim out of a side pocket and fastened them through the open wrist cuffs, the 'F' and ewe staring up at him from their respective links. John grabbed the polish and rag and began to shine his dress shoes until they gleamed.

By the time he made it down to the restaurant, John was a half-hour late and the rest of the group was at the table quietly murmuring to each other. Jim was sitting on the far-side of the table in between Brandon and Lucy, facing the door and was turned towards the guide with his head bowed as he pointed at something on the man's menu. There was an empty seat on the far end of the table that was obviously reserved for John.

Lucy glanced his way and he saw her eyes widen in shock before she roughly nudged Carla who was sitting beside her. Both women's mouths fell open as he approached, catching Charles' attention and making him choke on his water.

One by one, the rest of the group, with the exception of the criminal consultant who hadn't noticed him yet, turned to see what the excitement was about and fell into a quiet stupor. It wasn't until Brandon looked up that Moriarty noticed the hush that had fallen over the table and glanced up as well.

There was a long beat of incomprehension before dark eyes widened and the genius's mouth parted in surprise. Moriarty ran his gaze over John as the doctor reached the table and licked his lips before he quickly stood in a graceful motion. He ran his hands down his own suit, smoothing the material, and cleared his throat.

"Just in time, Johnny," Moriarty said, his voice thick. "We're just about to order. I saved you a seat."

Brandon looked at Jim. "No you didn't."

Jim blindly reached over and shoved Brandon out of his chair, making several of the group members laugh. The group leader frowned from his place on the ground before he caught the expression on Moriarty's face and rolled his eyes. He grumbled out a complaint even as he got up and moved to the empty seat on the other side of the table.

Moriarty pulled out the now empty chair, his eyes never leaving the doctor's form as John finally stopped beside him. The thinly veiled hunger in the consultant's gaze made John clear his throat before he sat down, conscientious of everyone's attention as Moriarty moved the chair into its proper place and retook his vacated seat.

The table was quiet until Sandra let out a quiet wolf-whistle, sending most of the group into peals of laughter. Veronica leered at John, making Mark close his eyes in exasperation, and she winked at Jim as she ran her fingers up and down the sides of her butter knife suggestively. Moriarty, however, completely missed the innuendo as he was still engrossed in staring at John.

John cleared his throat and inched the chair away from the consultant a tiny bit. "Sorry for being late."

"If you pouring yourself into those trousers was the reason, no apologies needed," Veronica said.

Mark groaned as the group's laughter was renewed, dropped his head into his hands and hissed at her to shut up. The doctor flushed deeply and looked down at his place-setting in embarrassment. He fiddled with the silverware as the laughter continued, the metal utensils clanging as they accidentally knocked into each other.

A thin hand was placed over his own and stilled John's movements with a gentle squeeze. John looked up and noticed Moriarty's attention on his wrists and John followed the black gaze until it landed on the cuff with the ewe on it. He automatically twisted his other arm so the matching link could be seen, making the genius snort and his lips quirk slightly.

Moriarty's eyes rose until they locked with John's, and black met blue briefly before John looked away toward the discarded menu that lay on his right. He lifted it and began sorting through the various items, his eyes widening at the prices. He hissed at a particularly expensive plate and turned to shoot Brandon a look.

"How is it that we're on a walking tour and yet we're eating at a five star restaurant?"

"Four star," Jim supplied helpfully.

John paused to glance at the consultant beside him, startled that he could tell when the younger male shifted from Moriarty back to Jim. It wasn't obvious, John wouldn't normally ever realize something like that from two simple words, but something about the person beside him had John paying more attention than usual. It was probably because Moriarty was unhinged and dangerous but, still, picking up on the rapid change was unnerving.

"Thank you, Jim," John retorted sarcastically as he turned back to Brandon.

"You're welcome," the genius responded.

John rolled his eyes but didn't engage the other further, not wanting the headache that quibbling with Jim would cause. He tapped his finger on the menu and Brandon shrugged helplessly.

"I don't decide where the groups stay, that's management. I guess they figure we're saving on transport so we can splurge on food. The company covers anything up to £70, not including alcohol."

The group murmured before looking through their options more closely, discarding anything over the included price. John shook his head before examining the menu again, trying to find something cheap. There wasn't really anything that sounded appealing and he huffed quietly to himself before picking something at random.

The waitress arrived a few minutes later and the group placed their order in a counter clockwise motion around the table, putting Jim before John. When it got round to the criminal consultant, Jim smiled at her and requested a second tab be opened. Brandon frowned but the waitress nodded, already expecting the request.

"Management already opened a tab for you, Mister Monaghan."

"Thank you!" Jim's smile widened, making the younger woman return the expression.

He closed his menu, snatched the one out of John's hands, and handed them over, ignoring the annoyed sound John issued before he ordered for both of them. Jim added starters for the table and few bottles of wine that John was was sure he didn't want to know the price of.

"So," Charles said, waiting until the waitress left. "If you don't mind me asking, what is it that you do for a living, Jim?"

John was curious as well, knowing the genius couldn't very well say 'criminal consultant'. The army captain hadn't really given it much thought, what this 'Mister Monaghan' did for money, because it was most surely not what Moriarty did in real life.

Jim turned his attention to Charles. "Do you know how successful brokers and financial investors know when to trade stocks or invest in certain markets or funds?"

"No," Charles shook his head.

"They use obscenely expensive software that run complex probabilities and computations."

"And you sell them the software," Lucy chimed in.

Jim smirked. "I make the software."

"Really?" Sandra asked, leaning forward.

"I write the mathematical formulas so, yes, I pretty much make it. Designing the interface and making it look nice is someone else's job."

Jim was smug and John had a feeling that it was genuine. While the group engaged in a conversation about stock brokers, John tilted his head to the side and examined the slighter man sitting beside him. Ben noticed the look and made an inquiring noise.

"You seem surprised," Ben said, trying not to attract everyone else's attention. He nudged his chin towards Jim. "He doesn't usually brag then?"

John turned to Ben and shrugged. "No. He's smug, yes, but he doesn't ever get into details. I know he consults on I.T., but nothing specific."

"I.T.?" Jim said, overhearing the comment. "I don't consult on technology. I'm a mathematician, Johnny. I just happen to work in the I.T. field."

That was news to John, but the surgeon simply assimilated the new knowledge and continued the conversation as if he had always known. He leaned into Jim's space and bumped his shoulder against the other's before he rested his elbows on the table and grinned at Ben.

"Jim doesn't support my efforts at the lotto."

Jim scoffed disparagingly. "You have a 1 in 14 million chance of winning the lotto. Even the typical prize is 1 in 55.5 thousand. You're statistically more likely to be accidentally declared dead then you are to win anything from that Ponzi scheme."

"Accidentally declared dead?" Carla piped up, sounding incredulous.

"I did a comprehensive analysis on the statistical probability of lotteries after Johnny spent a hundred quid on tickets."

The table laughed and John shook his head. "Piss off, Jim. I won £25."

"One in 57." Jim ticked a finger. "Also, that's still a £75 loss."

Ben frowned. "It's not always about losing."

Jim snorted. "What's the point of playing something when there's no likely chance of having a positive return?"

"How about the fun of it," Ben countered.

"Fun? How much fun can you have after you waste your money away on foolish and useless things?"

"Some people don't need to be rich to enjoy life," Ben snapped. "They're happy with what they have and don't need anything else."

The table grew quiet as Ben and Jim parried words, picking up on and surprised by the fact that the two men seemed to dislike each other. John watched the interaction carefully, dreading the possibility he'd have to intervene and draw Moriarty's attention away from the group member he was arguing with.

And it was Moriarty that was arguing. John could tell from the lines of the genius' posture and the darker glint in his eyes. Vitriol temper was licking at the edges of the consultant's words and many at the table were staring at him with wide eyes, shocked at the hint of something cruel Moriarty was either having trouble hiding or forgetting to.

"Happy with what they have? Please," Moriarty scoffed again. "People always want more. If not more, then something different, newer."

"I'd imagine you're speaking from experience," Ben shot back, making John realize with a sinking stomach that there was an ulterior conversation happening between the two.

Moriarty narrowed his eyes and his jaw twitched, the expression building on his face causing the feeling in John's abdomen to explode into full-blown dread. The criminal consultant opened his mouth to retort, something John knew would be unbelievably harsh, and the army captain acted quickly. He laid his hand on Moriarty's thigh, squeezing tightly, and hoped to distract the Irishman before he could lash out.

The iron like grip, hidden by the tablecloth, served its purpose. Moriarty snapped his barely opened mouth shut and inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring with the action, and he remained quiet, even though the glare he directed at Ben didn't falter. Long thin fingers curled into loose fists on either side of Moriarty's dinner plate, short nails quietly scratching the cloth as they did so. Ben's expression darkened and he moved to speak, making the lithe muscles under John's hand bunch, but John cut him off before things went any further.

"Ben," he said firmly, drawing the younger man's attention. "That's out of line. Just agree to disagree on this one so we can have a nice dinner, please."

Ben glanced around the table and flushed at the stares he was getting. He murmured an awkward apology before nodding at John. John knew the half-hearted attempt was the best he was going to receive, so he nodded his head and removed his hand from Moriarty's thigh. He felt the leg slide away from him, out of easy reach, and wasn't sure if he should be worried or proud about that. Conversation stalled around the table until Jim revived the humorous atmosphere with a well-placed leer at to Veronica.

"I just love it when Johnny asserts himself."

Veronica hesitated before her mouth quirked and she joined in. "He good at that then? Asserting himself."

The drawled innuendo broke the tension at the table and most laughed, John being one of the only exceptions. The doctor was mortified and stared between the two helplessly as they continued drawing snorts and giggles from the other group members.

"Oh definitely. You have no idea how long it took to train him."

"Really? I'd have loved to be a fly on that wall, pick up a few tricks." Veronica's expression changed into something dirty and Mark flushed a deep red beside her.

"I as well. Sadly, Her Majesty's Royal Army doesn't like voyeurs."

The comment sent the table into another fit and John covered his face with a hand, resting his elbow beside his water glass. Jim shot him an innocent smile and patted John's other hand gently. John turned his head to look at the genius and raised an eyebrow questioningly, making Jim's smile deepen.

"I'm only teasing, Johnny. Everyone was entirely too serious and you're easy to use."

Again, John listened to the words and not the tone. Pulling them apart and dissecting them. The insult was obvious, but no one was truly listening. They heard it and laughed because it was made in a joking gesture. And it drove John mad that until a few months ago he would have done the exact same thing.

Only teasing them, John thought waspishly.

Instead of voicing his displeasure, John smiled and leaned in a little, making Jim's own stretched lips falter slightly and the genius pull away a fraction. Most wouldn't have caught the movement but John was sitting next to the man and saw it clearly. He didn't know if it was feigned or a sign of actual wariness, so he pushed it aside.

"We'll see how easy I am the next time you want to play one of your games, Jimmy," John teased. "I don't care how close you are to exploding."

Veronica's eyes widened at the double-entendre and she smacked her hand against Mark's chest and let out a sharp laugh and whistle. Brandon and several of the others were staring in shock, unsure of whether to laugh like Veronica or be mortified, but John kept his gaze focused on the man sitting at his side.

Dark humor and a little bit of surprise flashed behind black eyes before a corner of the other's thin mouth twitched upwards, a veiled acknowledgement of John's well-disguised threat. John nodded, as if happy with what the other's were interpreting as stunned silence from Jim, and sat back in his seat and rubbed his hands together.

"How long do you think before the starters arrive?"


End file.
